
MARJORIE 

ON 

BEACON HI BE 


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ALICE TURNER CURTIS 




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WE OUGHT TO DO SOMETHI^^G 




































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WE HAVE BEEN WATCHING FOR YOU 










Marjorie 
On B eacon Hill 

By 

ALICE TURNER CURTIS 

Author of “ Marjorie’s Way,” “Marjorie’s 
Schooldays,” “Marjorie in the 
Sunny South,” Etc. 

Illustrated by Mary F. Andrade 



The Penn Publishing Company 
Philadelphia 
1913 



COPYEIGHT 
1913 BY 
THE PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 







©CI,A354074 


Introduction 


Makjoeie Philips, whose previous adventures were 
described in “Marjorie’s Way,” “Marjorie’s Schooldays” 
and in “ Marjorie in the Sunny South,” comes to spend 
the winter with Mrs. Melchin in her home on Beacon 
Hill, in Boston, together with the two little mill girls, 
whom Marjorie helped to release from an ignorant and 
cruel uncle. In the historic city of Boston Marjorie 
becomes acquainted with interesting people, and helps 
Sophronia and Ann in many useful ways. She has a 
happy time with her new schoolmates, and when the 
time comes that she must make an important decision 
she is unselfish, and decides wisely. Those who have 
followed her career in the previous books will find in 
this volume the same helpful, friendly little girl, 
and will be amused and touched by Ann’s adventures 
and Sophronia’s faithful affection for her best friend. 


3 




Contents 


1. 

In Boston .... 



9 

II. 

Sophronia’s Adventure 



19 

III. 

A Welcome Message 



29 

IV. 

The Paper Pageant Party . 



38 

V. 

Alexander’s Cocoon Party . 



48 

VI. 

Marjorie’s Mistake 



58 

VII. 

Mr. Field’s “ Surprise ” 



67 

VIII. 

Ada’s Visit .... 



78 

IX. 

Sophronia’s Party 



87 

X. 

Rescuing “ Robinson Crusoe ” 



97 

XI. 

Christmas .... 



107 

XII. 

A Visit 



119 

XIII. 

Sophronia’s Education . 



128 

XIV. 

Plans for Sophronia 



138 

XV. 

A Week in Ashley 



148 

XVL 

In the Pine Woods 



158 

XVII. 

A New Marjorie . 



168 

XVIII. 

Helping Marjorie 



177 

XIX. 

Marjorie Decides 



186 

XX. 

Marjorie and Mrs. Melchin 



196 


5 


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Illustrations 


“ We Have Been Watching for You ” . Frontispiece '/^ 

“You Understand Now, Don’t You?” . . 34 

She Crept On, Not Realizing Her Own Danger 102 ^ 
The Studio Was a Pleasant Place . . .1561/' 

“We Ought to Do Something” . . . 178 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill. 


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Marjorie on Beacon Hill 


CHAPTER I 

IN BOSTON 

“ Look, Ann, look ! There she comes ! ” 

“ Where, Sophronia ? ” and an eager-eyed girl with 
smooth brown hair, and bright eyes, leaned over her 
sister’s shoulder to peer out of the bow window of Mrs. 
Melchin’s library which commanded a wonderful view 
of Boston Common, and of the slope of Beacon Hill. 

“ On the other side of the street ; see ! She’s stopped. 
She’s looking straight up at this window ! ” And So- 
phronia waved both hands up and down and nodded 
her head gaily in response to a little gesture of greeting 
from a girl on the other side of the street who stood 
looking up at the bow window. She was a girl nearly 
fifteen years of age. She, too, had brown hair ; it 
waved softly back from her face under a becoming 
brown felt hat. The hat matched the neat suit of 
brown cloth, and as she waved her hand toward the 
two girls in the window Marjorie made a very attract- 
ive little figure. 


9 


lo Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“She’s coming across the street. There’s the bell, 
and Billings has let her in,” exclaimed Sophronia ; and 
the sisters rushed from the room and met Marjorie at 
the head of the stairs. 

“We have been watching for you half an hour,” said 
Sophronia, as Marjorie took off her coat and hat. “ You 
can stay all day, can’t you ? Mrs. Melchin said you 
would.” 

Both the girls looked a little anxious, as Sophronia 
spoke, but at Marjorie’s smiling assent they, too, smiled 
happily. 

“ It’s all so wonderful,” said Sophronia, sitting down 
close beside Marjorie, “that sometimes I am afraid 
I shall wake up and find that Ann and I are back in 
the cotton mill. We should be there this minute if it 
hadn’t been for you,” and she looked at Marjorie with 
so much gratitude that Marjorie hardly knew what 
response to make. 

Six months before Sophronia and Andromeda Cutts 
had been little workers in one of the great cotton mills 
of South Carolina. It was Marjorie who had given 
them a chance for a happier life. With her friend 
Betty Savory she had planned a day’s picnic at her 
plantation home for the mill girls, and on that day, 
touched and unhappy over the injustice of Sophronia’s 
life of toil, Marjorie had told the little mill girl to run 
away from the uncle who had sent the sisters into the 
mill. Fortunately, however, Marjorie’s mother and 
aunt discovered the plan, and suggested a much wiser 


In Boston 


11 


one. Sophronia and Andromeda were taken in charge 
by a kind lady in Columbia, and Mrs. Melchin, a friend 
of Marjorie’s grandmother, and a stockholder of the 
cotton mil], was persuaded to have the girls come to 
her Boston home. A boy from the same mill had also 
come North, and was with Farmer Wyman in Ashley, 
an hour’s ride from Boston. Mrs. Melchin had become 
greatly interested in the two little mill girls. They had 
spent the summer with her at her Cohasset home, and 
she had taught them to read, supplied them with suit- 
able clothing, and, after their six months’ experience of 
kindness and affectionate care, they were developing 
into attractive and promising children. 

On the return to Boston in the early autumn, how- 
ever, Mrs. Melchin had been puzzled as to the wisest 
course to pursue with her charges, and had finally de- 
cided to ask Mr. and Mrs. Philips to “ lend ” her Mar- 
jorie for the winter. 

“ She can go to school, have music lessons, and she 
will be a great help with Sophronia and Ann,” she 
had written to Mrs. Philips, and Mrs. Philips had 
consented. Marjorie had come North the previous 
week and was visiting her aunt, Miss Maria Wing, in 
Ashley. She had come in to spend the day with her 
friends. 

“ When are you coming to stay ? ” questioned Ann, 
sitting very close to her guest, and smoothing her 
pretty brown skirt with her thin fingers. 

“ Next week,” responded Marjorie. “ Aunt Maria has 


12 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

decided to start for the plantation on Thursday, and 
we are coming in here Wednesday.” 

“ Is she going to keep school ? ” questioned Sophronia, 
who remembered the schoolhouse among the pine 
woods at Marjorie’s home. 

“ Yes, indeed. And Betty and Tryphosa and Grace 
and Edith will all go,” answered Marjorie. 

There was a little silence, for Marjorie’s smile had 
disappeared, and both Sophronia and Ann knew that 
she was thinking of her far-off home, and her friends, 
and the happy days of the year before. 

“ And Adrienne and Lucy Wilson are going with 
Aunt Maria,” Marjorie continued cheerfully ; “ they are 
going to stay at my house and go to school. So, you 
see, my mother won’t be so lonesome to have me away 
from home.” 

“ It’s all lovely,” declared Sophronia. “Are we going 
to school. Miss Marjorie ? ” 

“ You mustn’t call me ‘ Miss,’ ” said Marjorie, with a 
little laugh. “We are about of an age, and we are 
friends. I don’t call you ‘ Miss.’ ” 

Sophronia’s pale face flushed a little. “ But you are 
different from we-uns — us, I mean,” she replied. “ You 
know so much more.” 

“ I expect to have to study to keep up with you after 
this,” declared Marjorie laughing. “ Mrs. Melchin says 
you learn very quickly.” 

“ Yes, she does,” exclaimed Ann, eagerly. “ I wish I 
did, but the minute I look at a book my head begins to 


In Boston 


»3 


ache. Mrs. Melchin says perhaps it is because my eyes 
are not right. Just think, I may have to wear 
glasses ! ” 

There was such a note of delight in Ann’s voice 
that Marjorie looked at her in surprise. Ann evidently 
considered that glasses were not only an adornment 
but a mark of intelligence. Sophronia also was beam- 
ing with pleasure. 

Everybody surely is good to us,” she said. “ I’d 
never looked to any such thing as Ann’s having 
glasses.” 

“ You are going to have some one come here and 
teach you every day,” said Marjorie, “ and probably I 
can help you with your lessons, too.” 

“Oh, I was hoping we-uns was a-goin’ to school 
with you,” said Sophronia. 

Marjorie explained to the girls that pupils had to 
learn certain things before they could enter the school 
she was to attend. 

“ Seems’s if all our life was clean wasted up to the 
very day we-uns — us, I mean ; no, we, I mean — went out 
to your house on that picnic,” said Sophronia, a little 
mournfully. “ I can’t remember that nothing pleasant 
ever happened to me before that day. I just dragged 
’round.” 

“ Then don’t think of anything that happened before 
that day,” said Marjorie; “ begin right there.” 

“ With Robinson Crusoe ? ” suggested Sophronia. “ I 
reckon I will. My ! When you read me about that 


14 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

island, and all the nice things Mr. Crusoe found there, 
and I lay in the hammock and ate cake, I thought I 
was in heaven sure.” 

“ It wasn’t any nicer than the piazza at Cohasset, 
was it? ” questioned Ann. That was mighty nice.” 

“N-no. I don’t know as ’twas really better,” an- 
swered Sophronia, “ but I sort of took the piazza for 
granted, you see ; and the cake and hammock was, I 
mean were, more than I had ever expected.” 

‘‘ Why, good-morning,” sounded a shrill voice from 
the adjoining room. 

“ Oh, that’s ‘ Pickwick,’ isn’t it ? ” said Marjorie. 
“ The very first time I came here that parrot almost 
frightened me. You see, I had never heard birds talk 
before.” 

Ann said she was glad all birds couldn’t talk ; there 
are so many at Cohasset,” said Sophronia. 

Mrs. Melchin was at Ashley for the day, and Mar- 
jorie was to stay until her return. 

“ Cora can go walking with us after luncheon,” Ann 
said. Luncheon was served in the pleasant dining-room^ 
and Billings waited upon the three little girls very 
carefully. He noticed approvingly that Sophronia and 
Ann no longer leaned their arms on the table, or used 
both hands to carry a glass of water to their lips. 

“ Mrs. Melchin has given each of us a doll,” said Ann, 
“ but I reckon we won’t play much with dolls. There’s 
too many other things to do.” 

“ They are well-meaning children, Miss Marjorie,” 


In Boston 


15 

Billings found a chance to say, as they left the dining- 
room. Billings had been in Mrs. Melchin’s employ for 
many years, and Marjorie was a great favorite with 
the faithful servant. 

“There’s a telephone call for you. Miss Marjorie,” 
said Cora as the girls returned to the library, and Mar- 
jorie hastened to respond. 

“ It’s from Mrs. Melchin,” she explained to Sophronia 
and Ann ; “ she says that Mr. Field and Luke Sanders 
are coming over this afternoon to take us for a walk, so 
Cora needn’t go.” As Marjorie hung up the receiver 
and turned toward her companions she noticed their 
expression. They were standing just inside the library 
door, tightly grasping each other’s hands. Their 
mouths were slightly open, their eyes big and round. 

“ What is it ? ” asked Marjorie. Sophronia drew a 
long breath and released her sister’s hand. 

“ It’s that talking machine,” she explained ; “ it skeers 
us every* time. You don’t reckon there’s any witch- 
work about it, do you ? ” and she looked at Marjorie 
anxiously. 

Marjorie laughed. “ Why, Sophronia,” she said, “ it’s 
just a telephone. There are wires, you know, and the 
voices go over the wires.” 

The sisters looked at each other, then Sophronia 
spoke again. 

“ Seems queer ! Would you tell us how voices can 
go over a wire, Miss Marjorie ? ” 

“ Well,” Marjorie did not like to say how very little 


i6 Marjorie on Beacon Hilt 

she knew about anything that she used as often as she 
did the telephone, “ well,’’ she repeated, “ I know it’s 
something about electricity ; electric currents over the 
wire.” 

Sophronia shook her head. “ Currants grow on 
bushes,” she announced ; “ there’s rows of bushes at 
Cohasset. I don’t reckon that electric currants could 
grow in air on a wire. Those voices coming right into 
a room that way can’t be ’counted for by no currants,” 
and she and Ann nodded their heads wisely. 

This seemed very funny to Marjorie, but she did not 
laugh. 

“ I mean a current, like a draught of air, not a 
fruit,” she explained. “ I know it is easy to explain 
just how the voice is carried, but I don’t know enough 
to tell you. When Mr. Field comes we will ask him ; he 
knows all about it.” 

Marjorie was very glad that Mr. Field and Luke 
were coming. Luke Sanders’ home was on her 
father’s plantation, and when Marjorie was a little girl 
she had taught him to read. He was now doing 
excellent work in the Mechanics’ Art School, and was 
very useful to Mr. Field, an artist, and his best friend. 

Before the girls had ceased discussing the telephone 
Ann called out from her seat in the window, “ Here 
they come,” and in a minute the other two girls were 
at the window looking down the slope of the hill. 

A small man, who walked with a slight limp, and 
used a cane, and a tall, vigorous-looking boy were 


In Boston 


»7 


coming up the hill. As they reached the crossing op- 
posite the house they looked up, as Marjorie had done, 
and seeing the girls in the window raised their hats, 
and in a few moments they had entered the library. 

“ Put your hats on, and come out,” said Mr. Field ; 
“ these October days are too beautiful to be indoors. 
We’ll walk along the esplanade as far as the Harvard 
Bridge and take a car to Cambridge.” 

“ That will be splendid,” said Marjorie ; “ and Mr. 
Field, mil you tell us all about the telephone ? ” 

Mr. Field held up his hands, as if he were too much 
surprised to reply, and then said, “ My dear children, 
ask Luke ! He knows all about it. Indeed he can 
make a wireless to any desired point. He will tell you 
anything, everything about telephones.” 

“ Can you, Luke ? ” questioned Marjorie. 

“ Why, I’ve studied about it, and tried some experi- 
ments,” said Luke. “ Farmer Wyman and I have wire- 
less connection.” 

“ All ready ? ” questioned Mr. Field, as Sophronia 
and Ann came back with their hats and coats ; “ then let 
us start, and after Luke has told you all there is to tell 
about telephones, I will tell you something far more de- 
lightful ! ” 

The little mill girls looked at him a little doubtfully. 
They could not quite understand how grown people 
could be so care-free as Mr. Field always seemed. 

“ Tell us now, Mr. Field,” urged Marjorie. 

Mr. Field shook his head. 


i8 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ JSTo, telephones first,” he replied. “ What I have 

to tell you is about — about ” 

“ About what ? ” asked Marjorie. 

“ About a surprise ! ” replied Mr. Field very seriously. 


CHAPTEE II 
sophronia’s adventure 

“Well, Marjorie,” said Mr. Field, as the little 
group walked down the pleasant street, “ we all think 
that you are a pretty brave sort of a girl to promise to 
stay all winter with us here in Boston.” 

“ I think so, too,” responded Marjorie, “ and when I 
remember all the lovely times at home, and now that 
Adrienne and Lucy are there it will be even better at 
Aunt Maria’s school, why, I almost wonder what made 
me say I wanted to come. But you know, Mr. Field, 
that my father said I might come right home any time, 
if I was homesick.” 

“ Of course. But these two little girls that you 
rescued from the mill are going to be much happier be- 
cause you are here, and it is going to be much easier for 
Mrs. Melchin,” said Mr. Field. 

“ That is what mother said when we talked it over,” 
replied Marjorie. “ You see, it is almost as if I had 
adopted Sophronia and Ann. Mother says that I must 
be careful about making mistakes because Sophronia 
thinks everything I do must be right,” and Marjorie 
gave a happy little laugh as though she thought it was 
19 


20 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

a very delightful thing to have some one have so good 
an opinion of her. 

Luke and the little girls were ahead, and were evi- 
dently not finding much to talk about. At Brimmer 
Street they turned and walked through a narrow side 
street toward the river. Mr. Field pointed out the 
bridges spanning the Charles, and they all strolled along 
the embankment talking of the places of interest that 
Mr. Field pointed out. 

Before they reached the Harvard Bridge, where they 
were to take the car for Cambridge, Mr. Field stopped 
suddenly. 

“ Luke ! ” he exclaimed, “ I must return to the studio 
at once ; I had quite forgotten that I had made an ap- 
pointment for some visitors there. Can you take Mar- 
jorie and her friends home ? ” 

“ Yes, sir ! Of course,” answered/.Luke, and again 
excusing himself to Marjorie Mr. Field hurried away. 

“ Can’t we go to Cambridge just the same ? ” asked 
Marjorie, looking at Luke questioningly. “ Of course 
we can ; there’s a car now. Come on,” she called to 
the others, running ahead without waiting for Luke’s 
response, or even to see if the others were following 
her. She waved at the car ; it stopped, and as Mar- 
jorie reached the platform it started. The conductor’s 
hand steadied her little lurch forward to an empty seat 
and Marjorie gave a quick breath and looked behind 
her. Where were Luke and the girls ? The car was 
going on at a good pace ; she stood up and looked out 


21 


Sophronia s Adventure 

hoping her companions were on the platform, but they 
were not. “ Oh ! ” she exclaimed. “ Stop the car ! 
They didn’t get on.” 

The conductor made his slow way toward her. 
“ They’ll come along on the next car, all right,” he as- 
sured her as she told him that her friends had not got 
on the car. 

“You’ll find them all right when you get home. 
Fare, please ! ” said the conductor. 

“ But we were not going home. We were just go- 
ing for a ride,” explained Marjorie. 

“ Fare, please,” said the conductor briefiy ; he had 
apparently lost all interest in her story. 

“ I haven’t any money. I left my purse at Mrs. 
Melchin’s,” said Marjorie. 

The conductor pulled the rope sharply. “Get off 
here,” he said, as the car came to a stop. “ Walk back 
and meet the others where you left them.” 

Marjorie got off the car, which had now reached the 
further side of the bridge. She looked longingly across 
the river. “ I do hope they’ll stay right where I left 
them,” she thought. “ I’ll hurry as fast as I can,” and 
she started to run, but a good many people were com- 
ing and going, and she soon discovered that her prog- 
ress would be more rapid if she looked ahead, and did 
not go at such a rate that she was continually jostling 
against people. 

As she neared the Boston end of the bridge she 
scanned the embankment eagerly for a sight of her 


22 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

friends. But they were not to be seen. She walked 
slowly along, wondering where they could be, and 
finally decided that Luke had taken the little girls back 
to Mrs. Melchin’s. 

“ I’m sure that’s what he would do,” she thought. 
“ Luke would know that if I didn’t find them here I 
would go right home,” and greatly cheered and en- 
couraged by this decision Marjorie started back along 
the way they had come. 

When Marjorie had turned to Luke with the sugges- 
tion that they should go to Cambridge, even if Mr. Field 
could not go with them, he had been close behind her. 
He had turned to tell Sophronia of Marjorie’s de- 
cision, and had not understood her call to hurry to 
catch the Cambridge car, so that Marjorie had reached 
the car and was on board before her companions 
knew it. 

“ She’s gone ! ” exclaimed Sophronia, before Luke 
had finished his explanation. 

“ Where ? ” Luke thought Sophronia meant that 
her sister was gone, for he did not see Ann. 

“ Marjorie’s gone ! ” said Sophronia, pointing to the 
bridge. 

“ Where’s Ann'? ” demanded Luke, and then So- 
phronia looked behind her. She tui^ed back to Luke 
with a puzzled look. ‘‘ I don’t know,” she said. 

“ Why, you ought to know ! ” exclaimed the boy. 
“ Ann was here a moment ago. ' Where is she ? ” 

Sophronia shook her head. “I reckoned we-uns 


Sophronia s Adventure 23 

would see trouble,” she said slowly. ‘‘ I reckon Ann’s 
in the water.” 

“ Great Scott ! ” exclaimed Luke, rushing toward the 
railing and looking over. 

“ She couldn’t get in the water unless she climbed 
over this fence and jumped in,” he declared. 

Tears were running down Sophronia’S face. “ And 
Miss Marjorie’s lost, too ! ” she sobbed. 

“ Marjorie isn’t lost ! ” asserted Luke. “ You couldn’t 
lose a girl like Marjorie ; she’ll be all right. But we 
must find your sister. She doesn’t know as much as a 
wise kitten.” 

“ Maybe she’s gone up one of these little roads,” sug- 
gested Sophronia, pointing to the paths leading up to 
the street. 

“ What would she do that for ? ” questioned Luke. 

Sophronia shook her head. 

“ Like as not something’s catched her,” she suggested 
fearfully. 

“ You stay right here,” commanded Luke ; “ now re- 
member : don’t you move from this place till I come 
back, and I’ll go up to the street and look for her,” and 
he was off. 

Sophronia stared after him. “ I reckon I’ll just find 
Miss Marjorie,” she decided wiping her eyes. “ She 
said we-uns was to go to Cambridge, and maybe Ann’s 
with her. That Sanders boy is terrible slow,” and 
Sophronia started back toward the bridge, quickening 
her pace as she neared the car line. A big trolley car 


24 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

came to a standstill just as she reached the bridge. 
“ Cambridge ! ” called out the conductor, and Sophronia 
stumbled up the steps and into the car much as Marjorie 
had done. Marjorie had said to go to Cambridge, and 
Sophronia was quite sure that it must be the right thing 
to do. 

“ Fare, please,” demanded the conductor, repeating 
it as Sophronia made no response. Then, his car being 
well filled, he moved on and, on his return, either by 
mistake or because he did not want to put a girl off the 
car, passed her by, and Sophronia rode on. On over 
the bridge, through dull and unlovely streets, into a 
noisy square, past big brick buildings set in elm-shaded 
spaces, down a broad street and on and on until every 
passenger except Sophronia had left the car. 

“ End of the line,” called the conductor, and, as 
Sophronia made no move to get out, he called again, 
“ All out. This car does not go any further.” And 
Sophronia slowly made her way out. 

“ Where’s Cambridge ? ” she asked. 

“Eight here. Where do you want to go?” asked 
the conductor, looking curiously at the solemn-faced 
little girl. 

“ Mr. Field ” began Sophronia, who intended to 

explain the whole story, when the conductor interrupted 
her. 

“ Eight over there ! ” lie said pointing to a store on a 
corner over whose door was fastened a sign reading 
‘ Fielder 


25 


Sophronia' s Adventure 

Sophronia smiled. This, she thought, was the very 
place that Mr. Field had probably intended to take them, 
and Marjorie and Ann were doubtless waiting for her 
there. She thought of Luke with scorn. I reckon 
he’ll be s’prised when we-uns all comes/ back,” she 
thought. “ This is some of Mr. Field’s folks’ store, I 
reckon,” and she walked bravely in. 

Marjorie and Ann were not to be seen, but this did 
not disturb Sophronia. “ Mr. Field told me to come 
here,” she explained to a very stout young man who 
stood behind a counter. 

“ Oh ! ” the young man looked at her as if he was 
very much surprised. “ You’re rather young, ain’t 
you ? ” he questioned. 

“ Past fourteen,” answered Sophronia. 

“Well, you go up-stairs and see what Mrs. Field 
says,” and the stout young man led the way to a door 
opening on a stairway. “ Go right up, and tell her that 
Mr. Field sent you,” he said, and Sophronia obeyed. 

The stairway led up to a small square passageway 
with one door. Sophronia rapped a little timidly, al- 
though she assured herself that Marjorie must be inside 
expecting her. 

“ Come in,” called a voice. “ Come right in,” and 
Sophronia opened the door. 

“Well, I declare, it took you a long time to get 
here! Take off your coat and hat. Where’s your 
things ? I expected you were older, but you’re better 
than nobody. Here, watch the baby till I get back ; I 


26 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

shan’t be away but a minute, and he’ll probably sleep. 
What’s your name?” And the stout little woman 
came to a full stop and her sharp black eyes regarded 
Sophronia questioningly. 

“ Sophronia Araminta Cutts,” replied the surprised 
girl. 

“ Gracious ! You must be from the Provinces. I’ll 
call you Sophy. Now take off your things, and set 
down. If Charles Edward wakes up you just rock 
him. I won’t be away long,” and before Sophronia 
had made up her mind to ask about Marjorie, the stair- 
way door closed after Mrs. Field, and the little girl was 
left alone with Charles Edward. Sophronia peered 
into the cradle to make sure that it really contained a 
baby. Assuring herself of this she sat down in a low 
rocking-chair and looked curiously around the room. 
On one side of the room stood an upright piano, and 
on its top were vases, and many small ornaments. 
There were two highly polished tables in the room, and 
these were also covered with a variety of vases and 
bowls. The wall paper was very bright with red 
flowers, and there were so many pictures that So- 
phronia did not look at any of them. It was a very dif- 
ferent place from the simple rooms of the Cohasset 
house or the stately simplicity of Mrs. Melchin’s city 
home. But Sophronia instantly decided that it was 
beautiful. 

“ I reckon things are happening to me a great deal 
more wonderful than what happened to Mr. Kobinson 


27 


Sophronia s Adventure 

Crusoe,” she whispered to herself. “Mrs. Field will 
probably come back with Marjorie. This suttinly is a 
fine place,” and she turned admiring eyes toward the 
curiously shaped vases and huge lamp with its shade of 
colored glass. 

While Sophronia sat in Mrs. Field’s sitting-room over 
the Cambridge grocery store guarding the slumbers of 
Charles Edward, her sister Ann was waiting patiently 
on the esplanade for the return of her companions. 
She had ventured up one of the paths, an admiring 
follower of a little red dog, and on her return to the 
embankment her friends had strangely disappeared. 
But Ann was not alarmed. “ I’ll watch the passin’ till 
they-uns comes back,” she decided, and placidly es- 
tablished herself on one of the comfortable seats facing 
the promenade, and there Luke found her after his 
hurried search through the street leading to the river. 

“ Well, Ann ! ” he exclaimed. “ I’ve had a great hunt 
for you.” 

Ann smiled. “ I just went up from the river a piece,” 
she explained. “I reckoned you’d know I’d come 
back. Where’s Sophronia, and Margie ? ” 

“ Lost ! ” declared Luke, feeling that if he was not so 
nearly grown up that he would like to cry, for what 
would Mr. Field say to him, and what might not hap- 
pen to the two girls who had disappeared ? 

Ann did not seem alarmed. “ I reckon they’ve gone 
home,” she announced calmly. “ Most likely they 
would.” 


28 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Luke’s face brightened. “ You’re a brick, Ann ! ” he 
declared. “ Of course that’s just what they would do. 
Come on. I was pretty well frightened, I can tell you. 
I thought they were lost.” 

Ann had to almost run to keep up with Luke, and in 
a very little while they were at Mrs. Melchin’s door. 

Marjorie stood in the hall just behind Billings. 

“ Oh, I am so glad ! ” she exclaimed as she saw Luke 
and Ann. “ Where’s Sophronia ? ” 

‘‘ Isn’t she here ? ” asked Luke. 

Marjorie shook her head ; even Ann’s placid smile 
faded. 

“ You had better telephone for Mr. Field, Miss Mar- 
jorie,” suggested Billings, and a few minutes later Mr. 
Field was startled by Marjorie’s voice telling him over 
the telephone that Sophronia Cutts was lost. 


CHAPTEE III 


A WELCOME MESSAGE 

Mr. Field listened to Marjorie’s account of Sophro- 
nia’s disappearance. As she finished Luke exclaimed, 
“ It’s all my fault. I ought to have taken Sophronia 
with me.” 

“ Nonsense,” responded Mr. Field. “ No matter who 
is to blame, that isn’t the question. We must find 
Sophronia. First of all we will call up the police sta- 
tions and tell them to look out for her. Then I will go 
down to the embankment ; she may be there now wait- 
ing for us.” 

Marjorie was very unhappy. All this trouble had 
come from her thoughtless rush after the Cambridge 
car, and she said to herself that if anything happened 
to Sophronia she could never be happy again. “ Even 
Betty would not have been so careless,” thought Mar- 
jorie, remembering her impulsive little Southern friend. 
Beside her anxiety about Sophronia, Marjorie remem- 
bered that Mrs. Melchin had felt that with Marjorie 
her new charges were perfectly safe. “ She will never 
trust me again, and what will Aunt Maria think ? ” 
Marjorie sat down near the table and covered her face 
with her hands, quite forgetful of Ann, or of Mr. Field 
and Luke. 


29 


3 ° 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Marjorie,” Mr. Field’s voice sounded a little sharp, 
and she looked up quickly, “ I am going out for a short 
time. Luke will stay with you and Ann. Be careful 
in regard to answering telephone communications, and 
do not leave the house. Kemember, neither of you is 
to go out.” 

Marjorie nodded, and Ann promised eagerly. Ann 
did not seem worried or alarmed ; she informed “ Pick- 
wick ” that he was a “ Pretty Poll,” wandered about 
the room, and finally established herself in the bow 
window where she could look out on the street. 

The telephone bell rang, and Luke answered the call. 

It’s a message for you, Marjorie. Your aunt says 
that you must be sure to take the 4 : 30 train. That 
will give you just time to get to the station,” and 
Luke glanced at the big clock whose hands pointed 
to the hour of four. 

“ How can I take that train ? ” demanded Marjorie. 
“ Mr. Field told me not to leave the house ! How can 
I go to Ashley and tell them that I have lost Sophro- 
nia ! ” Marjorie’s voice sounded as if tears were very 
near, and Luke regarded her seriously. 

“ I reckon you’d better do as your aunt says,” he re- 
sponded, after a moment’s thought. ‘‘ Cora will take 
you to the train, and I’ll stay here and answer any tele- 
phone messages. And I will tell Mr. Field. You see, 
Marjorie, you ought to go and tell Mrs. Melchin how 
this happened.” 

“ Oh ! ” Marjorie’s exclamation was nearly a sob, but 


3» 


A W^elcome Message 

she put on her coat and hat, and called Cora, the young 
colored maid who so often reminded her of the planta- 
tion and “ Aunt Cora.” 

“ I’ll tell Sophronia you just had to go to Ashley,” 
said little Ann, coming close to Marjorie, and looking 
up into her face with her appealing little smile. “ I 
reckon Sophronia ’ll be home ’fore dark.” 

“ Good-bye, Ann.” Marjorie’s voice was choked. She 
resolved to herself that if Sophronia was really lost, 
never found, that Ann should be her own special charge, 
always. 

It was a very sober Marjorie who took her place 
in the Ashley train. Her heart was full of anxiety 
about Sophronia, and she hardly knew how she could 
tell the story to her Aunt Maria and Mrs. Melchin. 

It was after five when Mr. Field returned, and soon 
after Mrs. Melchin, who had left Ashley in her auto- 
mobile before Marjorie’s arrival, reached home, and 
Mr. Field told her the sad little story of the after- 
noon. The old lady listened calmly. “ Poor Marjorie ! ” 
she exclaimed as he finished. ‘‘ She will take all the 
blame on herself. I wonder why Sophronia didn’t 
wait as you told her to, Luke ? It’s her fault. She 
had no business to start off by herself.” 

Ann had listened to this conversation and was quick 
to see that they all blamed Sophronia. She began to 
feel very much alone, and very unhappy ; and, for the 
first time since her sister’s disappearance, became anx- 
ious about her. “ I reckon Sophronia won’t ever come 


32 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

back,” she exclaimed, and then, to the surprise and dis- 
may of her companions, she began to weep bitterly. 

“ Take this girl up-stairs and put her to bed,” said 
Mrs. Melchin sharply, and (>ora led Ann out of the room. 

“This is the result of interfering in other people’s 
affairs ! ” declared the old lady, looking at Mr. Field 
reproachfully. “ Here I am responsible for these two 
girls, and look at the trouble 1 am in. I am too old 
to be bothered this way; I knew I was. I knew I 
didn’t want them, and yet I let Maria Wing and 
Marjorie persuade me that it was my duty. And all 
on account of my owning a few shares in a cotton mill. 
I won’t keep those shares another day. Hot one ! ” 
and Mrs. Melchin looked as if this decision ought to 
relieve her of all further responsibilities. 

They had just finished a rather quiet dinner, when a 
telephone call sent Luke flying to answer. 

“ Yes, this is Mrs. Melchin’s house,” they heard him 
answer. “ Y es, on Beacon Street. Yes ! Yes ! Yes ! ” 

“ What is it, I do wonder,” whispered Mrs. Melchin, 
and Luke’s replies went on : 

“ Y^es, I have the number. Yes, sir ! Thank you 
very much. Mrs. Melchin will send right over after 
her,” and Luke hung up the receiver, and swung round 
to face Mrs. Melchin with a radiant face. 

“ Sophronia’s found ! ” he announced. “ She’s all 
right. She is in Cambridge.” 

Mr. Field was on his feet, and Mrs. Melchin’s face 
lost its anxious look. 


33 


A zlcome Message 

“ Order the car, Arthur, and you and Luke go fetch 
her,” she said, adding in a lower tone, “ I am thankful.” 

Mr. Field and Luke were out of the room almost be- 
fore she had finished speaking, and the old lady was 
left alone. She sank back in her chair with a sigh of 
relief. “Pickwick” muttered, “Well, well! I de- 
clare,” and then silence settled over the room. Mrs. 
Melchin was thinking of many things, and did not no- 
tice when the big door was pushed open and a little 
figure, in a long white gown, that almost covered her 
bare feet, crept into the room. Ann came forward so 
noiselessly that she had reached Mrs. Melchin’s chair 
before its occupant knew that any one was near. 

“ Well, well 1 I declare ! ” she exclaimed, looking up 
in surprise and for the moment hardly recognizing her 
unexpected visitor. “ Who’s this ? ” 

“ Me,” answered Ann, timidly. “ I reckon I skeered 
you ! ” 

“ No, child, no ! ” answered Mrs. Melchin. “ What 
do you want ? ” 

“ I reckon you-uns don’t know that ’twas me made 
all this trouble,” began the child in a faltering voice. 
From the very first she had stood in awe of Mrs. Mel- 
chin ; and Mrs. Melchin’s sharp dismissal of her that 
evening had added a new sense of fear ; but Ann had 
a certain fine courage about her. To defend Sophronia 
she could face even Mrs. Melchin’s disapproval, and she 
quickly told her little story, adding, “ Sophronia 
wouldn’t go to do nothing wrong, ’deed she wouldn’t.” 


34 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ You’ll catch cold ; have pneumonia, like as not, and 
make no end of trouble.” Mrs. Melchin was really 
thinking aloud. But Ann received it as a merited re- 
proof. 

“ I reckon you wish we-uns was back in the cotton 
mill,” she said meekly. “ Uncle Besum said you’d be 
sick of us.” 

“ Miserable creature that he is,” responded Mrs. Mel- 
chin. “ Come here, child.” 

Ann took a hesitating step forward, and quivered 
with surprise when Mrs. Melchin’s arm drew her nearer, 
and as the old lady lifted the slight figure into her lap 
she gave a half -startled exclamation. It was the first 
time in her life that Ann remembered having kind arms 
about her. 

‘‘ I don’t want you to get cold, child,” and Mrs. Mel- 
chin’s voice was tender. She took the fleecy wool 
shawl from her own shoulders and wrapped it about 
Ann. ‘‘ Now, Ann, what made you think I wanted to 
be rid of you ? ” she asked, and before Ann could an- 
swer, she went on : ‘‘You must not think that, ever. 
I have lived alone a good many years, and I am a self- 
ish old woman, Ann. That’s why I blamed Sophronia 
for being lost, and sent you off to bed. You under- 
stand now, don’t you ? ” 

Ann’s appealing eyes looked into Mrs. Melchin’s, and 
a little smile came over the face of the child and was 
reflected on Mrs. Melchin’s. 

“ I ain’t skeered of you a mite,” confided Ann, her 



“you understand now, don’t you?” 

■% 







35 


A Welcome Message 

stiff little figure relaxing into a more natural position, 
and her smooth little head resting easily against Mrs. 
Melchin’s shoulder. 

Mrs. Melchin’s arm tightened its clasp. It had been 
a long time since Mrs. Melchin had held a child as she 
now held Ann. “ And Sophronia is found, and every- 
thing is all right,” she said. 

Ann sat up so suddenly that she nearly fell out of 
Mrs. Melchin’s lap ; then her head went back to its 
old resting-place, and she announced, “I knew she 
wasn’t really lost. I ’spected her back before.” 

When Cora came into the room half an hour later 
Mrs. Melchin held up a warning finger. Ann was fast 
asleep. “ Can you carry her up-stairs, Cora ? ” whis- 
pered Mrs. Melchin, and the good-natured girl bent 
over and lifted Ann, and with a smiling nod of under- 
standing carried the little figure back to bed. 

Mrs. Melchin rose to her feet, and stood for a mo- 
ment, listening. Yes, there were voices in the hall. 
Then the sound of steps on the stairs, and Sophronia 
stood before her. Mr. Field quickly told the little 
story. The grocer’s wife in Cambridge had expected 
a nurse girl, and on Sophronia’s appearance had ac- 
cepted her without question. Later on the rightful 
applicant had appeared, with the result that the grocer 
had called up Mrs. Melchin’s house, and Sophronia was 
safe at home. 

“ They seemed almost sorry to let Sophronia come 
home,” said Mr. Field. 


36 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ I hope Sophronia wasn’t sorry to come,” responded 
Mrs. Melchin, in so kind a tone that Mr. Field looked 
at her in wonder. 

“ ’Twas a beautiful place,” declared Sophronia, “ and 
Charles Edward was a nice baby. Maybe you’ll let me 
go over and see Charles Edward some time ? ” 

Sophronia had taken the whole adventure very calmly. 
Not until some days later, when she had been told 
of police officers searching the streets after her, and of 
Marjorie’s anxiety and unhappiness, did she realize that 
she had caused a great deal of trouble. 

“ I reckon the reason I felt so safe was on account of 
Mr. Crusoe,” she said. “ He had strange things happen, 
so I took for granted that maybe I would.” In her 
heart Sophronia was always hoping to discover Crusoe’s 
island. At Cohasset she had felt quite sure that the 
island could be easily reached, but had not dared to 
suggest it. 

Luke telephoned Sophronia’s return to Marjorie, and 
the little girl was sure that no more welcome message 
had ever traveled over the wires. 

“ You haven’t blamed me at all. Aunt Maria,” said 
Marjorie as they talked over the adventures of the 
day. 

“ I don’t need to, my dear,” responded her aunt ; “ it 
isn’t necessary to find fault with people who see their 
mistakes and are as sorry for them as you are.” 

“ Aunt Maria, I do hope I am going to grow up just 
like you,” responded Marjorie impulsively, and then 


37 


A JVelcome Message 

they both laughed; for on Marjorie’s first visit to 
Ashley she had been so anxious to resemble her aunt 
that she had put on a long dress, and had been ready 
to be a “ grown-up ” before she was ten years old. 

It was a late hour that night before Marjorie slept, 
and she made many good resolves for the future. She 
would always think things over, she resolved, before 
deciding what to do. And she would not blame people 
who made mistakes, and, best of all, she would try and 
be like Aunt Maiia. 


CHAPTER lY 


THE PAPER PAGEANT PARTY 

“ It’s our last week in Ashley, and we must have the 
best time we can,” announced Adrienne Wilson the 
next morning when she made her usual daily visit on 
Miss Wing. Adrienne and her younger sister Lucy 
were to return to South Carolina with Miss Wing and 
remain for the winter. 

“ Ada has a lovely plan,” went on Adrienne. She 

wants ! ” Adrienne came to an abrupt pause. 

“ Why, what is it, Marjorie ? ” she asked. 

Marjorie had suddenly exclaimed, “ Mr. Field’s sur- 
prise ! ” and in answer to her friend’s question she said, 
“ I wonder what he meant. He told us yesterday that 
he had a surprise for Sophronia, Ann and me, and 
then so much happened that we all forgot it. What 
do you suppose it was ? ” 

“ Can’t imagine,” answered Adrienne briefly. “ I 
guess he was the one to be surprised. Never mind 
about that now, Marjorie. Ada is going to have a 
party for us. Her mother said she could, and you 
know how lovely Mrs. Streeter always is. We will 
have the nicest kind of a time.” 

Ada Streeter’s friends were all very fond of Mrs. 

38 


“The Paper Pageant Party 39 

Streeter, and always very glad of an invitation to the 
shabby little house with the wonderful garden. It 
was Mrs. Streeter who had taught Adrienne how to 
darn stockings neatly, and who had shown her how to 
make the wonderful sugar cookies that were always 
ready for Ada’s friends when they came to see her. 
Mrs. Streeter knew a great deal about the wild flowers 
that grew by the country roadsides, and along the river 
banks, and in the fields and woods, and the girls had 
enjoyed many happy hours with her in long tramps 
after some rare blossom. 

“ There’s Ada now ! ” exclaimed Marjorie, and ran 
to open the door for her friend. Ada’s dresses were 
never so pretty or so expensive as those of Adrienne, 
Marjorie or Betty Savory, but they were always neat 
and fresh in appearance. Some of them were made 
of dresses that Mrs. Streeter could no longer wear. 
But no little girl in Ashley had so many dainty white 
collars as Ada Streeter. Mrs. Streeter was never idle ; 
a piece of dainty embroidery could always be found in 
her work-basket; this work the girls all knew as 
“ Ada’s collars.” 

“ I’m going to have a party ! ” announced Ada ; “ it’s 
really for you, Marjorie, and Adrienne and Lucy, but 
mother says that she thinks it would be nice to ask 
Miss Gray, and Ferdinand Webb, and Farmer Wyman 
and Alexander Most.” 

“ What can boys do at a party ? ” inquired Adrienne 
a little scornfully. 


40 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Mother thought perhaps Alexander had never been 
to a party,” explained Ada. 

“ That’s just like your mother ; always thinking to do 
pleasant things for people,” retorted Adrienne. 

Alexander, ‘‘ Duck,” as he had been called in the 
mill, was the boy who had come to live with Farmer 
Wyman. He was one of Miss Gray’s pupils at the 
village school, and he and Ferdinand Webb were 
already the best of friends. 

Mother said that I was to tell you that it was to be 
a ‘ Pageant Party.’ I am going to send notes to the 
others,” said Ada. 

“ Does ‘ Pageant Party ’ mean that we are all to 
dress up ? ” asked Adrienne hopefully. 

“ No, mother said she would tell us. I don’t even 
know,” responded Ada. 

“ You haven’t told us when the party is to be, Ada,” 
Marjorie reminded her. 

“ To-morrow night at half -past seven ; now I must 
hurry to school. It seems dreadful not to have you girls 
there,” said Ada and with a hasty good-bye started off. 

Marjorie wondered what a “ Pageant Party ” could 
possibly be, and even Aunt Maria had no solution to 
offer. She was very glad when the next evening came. 
Mr. Wilson, Adrienne and Lucy called for her, and 
Mr. Wilson promised Miss Wing to bring Marjorie 
safely home when he brought his own little daughters. 

As they reached Ada’s gate they found Ferdinand 
Webb waiting. “Didn’t want to go in alone,” he ex- 


'The Paper Pageant Party 41 

plained, and kept very close to Mr. Wilson until they 
reached the sitting-room. Miss Gray, Farmer Wyman 
and Alexander Most were already there. On the wall 
over the comfortable sofa was a large sheet of brown 
wrapping-paper on which was printed the word 
“ Hiawatha ” in large letters. On the sofa were eight 
piles of illustrated magazines and illustrated papers. 
On the top of each of these piles lay a pair of scissors, 
a small brush, and four sheets of brown paper. The 
big table in the center of the room was cleared off and 
eight chairs set around it. On each corner of the 
table was a shallow bowl tilled with flour paste. 

“ How many of you are familiar with Longfellow’s 
poem ‘ Hiawatha ’ ? ” asked Mr. Streeter. Farmer Wy- 
man and Miss Gray responded instantly. Ada and Mar- 
jorie and Ferdinand all said that they knew it “ pretty 
well,” but Adrienne, Lucy and Alexander shook their 
heads. In fact Alexander was wondering to himself 
what a “ poem ” was. 

Mr. Streeter then read them the beautiful introduc- 
tion to the poem : 

Should you ask me, whence these stories'? 
Whence these legends and traditions, 

With the odors of the forest, 

With the dew and damp of meadows, 

With the curling smoke of wigwams, 

With the rushing of great rivers *? 

I should answer, I should tell you, 

‘ From the forests and the prairies. 

From the great lakes of the Northland.’ ” 


42 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Then he told them briefly the story of Hiawatha’s 
song, of the Peace-Pipe, of the Four Winds, how “ the 
sons of Mudjekeewis had their stations in the heavens,” 
controlling the winds. 

Then, of the Blessing of the Corn-fields, and of the 
story of Winter — “It was Peboan, the Winter!” — 
and of Hiawatha’s departure “ To the regions of tlie 
home- wind.” 

Alexander listened eagerly. Every day new and 
wonderful things were finding their way into the mind 
of this Southern boy, and henceforth the word “ poem ” 
would have a very beautiful meaning to him. 

As Mr. Streeter finished his story, Mrs. Streeter ex- 
plained what a Paper Pageant was. “ You are to cut 
from these papers and magazines any picture that will fit 
into the story,” she said. “ Each one of you can decide 
on four scenes from ‘ Hiawatha,’ and then paste your 
pictures to represent those scenes on those squares of 
brown paper.” 

In a few moments they were all eagerly at work. 
The advertisements produced more Indians, canoes, and 
stars than did other parts of the magazines, and Ferdi- 
nand and Alexander compared their “ finds ” with de- 
light. Farmer Wyman and Lucy discussed how many 
birds could be properly placed in one picture, and it 
was very evident that the “ Pageant ” idea was success- 
ful. 

As the clock struck eight, Mrs. Streeter announced 
that the “ Pageant ” was ready to open. She had 


The Paper Pageant Party 43 

fastened a strip of scarlet cloth across one end of the 
room, and now as she called each name its owner was 
to pin the pasted pictures he or she had completed on 
the scarlet cloth. There was a great deal of laughter 
and merry talk over the different pictures, and as they 
were fastened in place each one announced the scene it 
represented. 

Alexander, who had been greatly impressed with the 
“ Four Winds of the Heavens,” had made a remarkable 
picture. On each corner of his paper was pasted an 
Indian. In the center was the picture of a bear. It 
was his idea of the sons of Mudjekeewis controlling the 
Winds, and conquering the “ Great Bear of the moun- 
tains.” 

Lucy thought that Hiawatha’s Picture-Writing, 

On the smooth bark of the birch-tree, 

On the white skin of the reindeer,” 

was the very best of all, and had marked a number of 
birds as “Owl and eagle, crane and hen-hawk.” But 
Farmer Wyman’s pictures were decided to be the best 
of all. 

“ I’d sure like to send these to Dimp,” Alexander 
whispered to Ferdinand, remembering his boy friend in 
the South, and looking admiringly at the rows of queer 
pictures. Ferdinand knew all about Dimp, for he 
and Alexander had become warm friends, and he 
resolved to ask Mrs. Streeter to give the “Pageant 


44 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Pictures” to Alexander to send to Dimp, and this 
Mrs. Streeter was very glad to do. Ferdinand agreed 
to write the letter that was to accompany them, and to 
mark the pictures which Alexander had made. 

While the others were talking over the pictures Ada 
and her mother had been clearing the table of its litter 
of papers, and were now putting on plates and cups and 
saucers. Then Ada brought in a bright tin pan heaped 
with snowy pop-corn ; this brought an admiring ex- 
clamation from Alexander. A plate of molasses candy 
also appeared, and a heaping dish of tiny bread and 
butter sandwiches ; last of all came the hot cocoa. As 
they gathered about the table Farmer Wyman turned 
to Alexander and said : 

“Well, my boy, I think we must have a party. 
What do you say ? ” 

Alexander flushed a deep crimson, and smiled broadly. 
A party ! He, “ Duck ” Most, have a party ! It seemed 
so remarkable a thing that he decided that Farmer 
Wyman must be joking. 

“ And, as most of you young people go to school, I 
think that Saturday will be an excellent day for you 
all to come over to the farm and have dinner with 
Alexander,” continued Farmer Wyman. “I guess 
we’ll call it a ‘ Cocoon Party.’ ” 

“ Yes, indeed,” exclaimed Alexander, whose eyes had 
brightened at the word “ cocoon,” but Farmer Wyman 
held up a warning finger. “ Sshh,” he said. “ We 
won’t tell them a word about it until we have them all 


"The Paper Pageant Party 45 

safely at the farm. Now, will you all promise to 
come ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” came a chorus of voices, and Ferdi- 
hand and Alexander exchanged a smile of understand- 
ing, for Ferdinand now spent a fair share of his leisure 
time at the W3rman farm, and knew something of what 
Farmer Wyman’s plan must be for a “ cocoon party.” 

It was after nine o’clock when Mr. Wilson appeared 
to take his little daughters and Marjorie home. The 
wonderful “ Hunter’s Mobn ” of October lit up the 
pleasant village street, and the sharp, clear air had a 
little fragrance of dead leaves. Lucy was eager to tell 
her father about the wonders of “ Hiawatha,” while 
Marjorie and Adrienne talked over the many things 
they were interested in. “ I do hope Mrs. Melchin is 
going to really like Sophronia and Ann,” said Marjorie. 
“ You see, now it would be hard for them if they really 
had to go to an orphan asylum, or home for girls.” 

“ But you told them that orphan asylums were won- 
derful places,” Adrienne reminded her. 

“ I know I did,” acknowledged Marjorie, “ and Aunt 
Maria herself says that asylums are splendid for chil- 
dren who haven’t any homes ; but now, you see, after 
having a home, Sophronia and Ann would know the 
difference.” 

“ What makes you think that Mrs. Melchin won’t 
keep them ? ” questioned Adrienne. “ Of course she 
means to, after asking you to spend the winter, and all.” 

“ I was only wondering,” responded Marjorie. She 


46 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

had not told Adrienne all of the adventures of the 
previous day ; of her own thoughtless rush into the 
street-car and all the trouble that had followed. But 
she thought a good deal about it, and feared that Mrs. 
Melchin might decide that two girls were going to be 
too much trouble; and that she, Marjorie, would not 
prove to be any help. 

“ If she doesn’t keep them it will be all my fault,” 
Marjorie thought unhappily. 

Miss Wing opened the door as Marjorie said good- 
night to her friends, and was interested in hearing all 
about the happy evening, and of Farmer Wyman’s in- 
vitation to the farm for Saturday. “ I don’t even know 
what the word ‘ cocoon ’ means,” said Marjorie. 

“ Dear me ! Dear me ! ” exclaimed Miss Wing. 
“ What will become of my reputation as a school-teacher 
when one of my pupils can say that ? I must tell you, 
even if it is ten o’clock and time for you to be in bed 
and asleep. A cocoon is the nice silken winter over- 
coat in which the moths, after they cease being cater- 
pillars, roll themselves up for the winter. They gen- 
erally attach themselves to a leaf or twig ; and there 
they are, nice and comfortable, until it is time to come 
out in the spring sunshine, with wonderful big wings of 
beautiful colors.” 

As Aunt Maria talked she had been leading the way 
up-stairs with Marjorie close behind her. 

“But how could Farmer Wyman have a cocoon 
party ? ” questioned Marjorie. 


The Paper Pageant Party 47 

“Wait and see,” responded Miss Wing laughingly, 
and bade her little niece good-night. As Ada and 
Adrienne afterward told Marjorie, they, too, had been 
curious to know what “ cocoons ” really were, and had 
made the same discovery. Alexander could have told 
them a great deal about the big moths that he had 
watched on summer evenings at the farm. They 
seemed very wonderful and beautiful to him, and he 
was looking forward to Saturday when he could show 
his friends the winter homes, the “ cocoons,” of the 
moths about which he had learned a good deal. He 
had already a number of beautiful moths and butter- 
flies, neatly mounted on cardboard in small boxes 
with glass tops, and had a plan by which he expected 
to add largely to his collection before spring. The 
“ cocoon party,” he was sure, would be a wonderful 
success. 


CHAPTER Y 

ALEXANDER’S COCOON PARTY 

Miss Wing, Mrs. Streeter and Miss Gray were in- 
cluded in the invitation to Farmer Wyman’s party, and 
were as eager to accept as was Marjorie herself. 
Farmer Wyman came over with his big team and drove 
his guests out to the farm. 

“ Feels a bit like snow,” he declared, as he tucked 
the warm robes carefully about his passengers. 

Marjorie and Lucy were on the front seat with 
Farmer Wyman, Adrienne and Ada had the second 
seat to themselves, while Miss Gray, Miss Wing and 
Mrs. Streeter occupied the back seat. Ferdinand had 
decided to go over on his bicycle, and had arrived at 
the farm before Farmer Wyman started for the village. 

“ I know what cocoons are,” Lucy shyly informed 
Farmer Wyman, as they left the village, the big horses 
trotting briskly over the frozen road, and carrying them 
past prosperous farms and up the pleasant slope toward 
their destination. “Cocoons are the houses where 
moths live in the winter,” continued Lucy. 

Farmer Wyman appeared to be very much surprised 
that Lucy should have made this discovery. “ You 
will be telling me what a ‘ cocoon party ’ is, I expect,” 
he said. 


48 


Alexander s Cocoon Party 49 

“ I don’t know sure^ but I guess it’s going after 
cocoons,” Lucy responded. 

“ Don’t let the others know that you’ve found out,’’ 
Farmer Wyman warned her in a very distinct whisper, 
and Lucy promised with great seriousness. 

As they neared the top of the hill, where the Wyman 
farm commanded a wonderful view of distant moun- 
tains and woodlands. Farmer Wyman waved his whip 
toward the hills. “ I used to think that the world 
ended on the other side of those hills,” he said. “ I 
thought it sort of curved off into the shape of a globe ; 
and, when I was a little fellow, I promised myself that 
just as soon as I grew up I would journey to the top 
of that highest mountain and look over.” 

“ What did you think that you would see ? ” asked 
Marjorie. 

“ I had an idea that it would be a great sea, dashing 
up against a smooth mountain wall,” replied Farmer 
Wyman. 

“ And didn’t you ever go to the mountain top ? ” 
asked Marjorie. 

The old farmer shook his head. “ No, I’ve never 
been. You see, a boy learns a good deal while he is 
growing up, and I found out that there were higher 
mountains yet to be seen from the top of my high peak, 
and that the sea was hundreds of miles away.” 

As he finished his little story Farmer Wyman turned 
his horses into the elm-shaded avenue that led up to the 
square white farmhouse. Mrs. Meek, his housekeeper, 


5 ° 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

with Alexander and Ferdinand were on the porch steps 
to welcome them, and Alexander led the horses away 
to their stable, closely followed by “ Webb,” as Ferdi- 
nand now wished to be called, much to Alexander’s sur- 
prise. 

“You had better have a warm drink after your ride. 
These October days are getting sharpish,” said Mrs. 
Meek, leading the way into the big comfortable living- 
room. There was a brisk little fire on the hearth and 
a round table drawn up before it. On this table was a 
big plate of fresh doughnuts. 

“ Help yourself ! ” said Mrs. Meek, “ and I’ll just step 
to the kitchen and bring you a warm drink.” 

She was back in a moment with a big blue pitcher, 
from which arose a spicy fragrance which made them 
all wonder what it could contain. 

“ I hope you’ll like this,” said Mrs. Meek, filling their 
glasses ; “ it’s a drink I invented myself ; just taste it 
and tell me if it’s all right.” 

“ To absent friends,” said Miss Wing, lifting her glass, 
and they all drank the little toast in the hot, foamy 
liquid with which their glasses were filled. 

“ Splendid ! ” declared Miss Gray. “ It tastes of sugar 
and spice and all things nice.” 

“ There ! I’m real pleased ! ” and Mrs. Meek smiled 
upon the young teacher. “ It’s really only milk and the 
whites of eggs, with sugar and nutmeg, beaten up to- 
gether and heated in a double-boiler, and then more nut- 
meg and another beating.” 


Alexander s Cocoon Party 51 

Ferdinand and Alexander were back in time for their 
share, and then Farmer Wyman told them that the 
party was ready to begin. 

“ It begins in the chestnut grove,” he said leading the 
way across the farmyard toward the pasture. “ You 
young people have sharp eyes, and now you can use 
them to good advantage. First of all do you all know 
what cocoons are ? ” 

“Yes, indeed!” answered Ada. “Miss Gray gave 
us an hour’s talk on moths yesterday, and we know all 
about cocoons and where to look for them.” 

“ Alexander has some splendid luna moths that he 
caught last summer,” volunteered Ferdinand. “ They 
are green, and have wings as big as my hand.” 

“ A good many cocoons can be found on the ground,” 
said Alexander, as they reached the edge of the chestnut 
grove. “ You see, they spin their cocoons over a leaf, 
and the leaf falls,” he explained, looking carefully 
among the rustling leaves through which they were 
walking. 

“ Look ! Look ! ” Marjorie held up a leaf to which 
was attached a gray silky cocoon, about as large as a 
pigeon’s egg. 

“ That’s a splendid find,” said Alexander. “ I know 
that means a good big moth when spring comes.” 

“ Let me see, Marjorie,” and Mrs. Streeter took the 
cocoon and examined it carefully. “ I think it’s the 
Telea jpolyphemus^^ she said ; “ if it is, it will come out 
an even larger moth than any of Alexander’s lunas ; 


52 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

and it will be a wonderful golden brown, with soft grays 
and delicate pinks.” 

“ Do the wings have ‘ eye-spots,’ and look like the 
colors on a peacock’s tail?” questioned Alexander 
eagerly. 

“ Yes, I believe they do,” responded Mrs. Streeter. 

“ I have seen those, but I never caught one,” said 
Alexander, looking a little longingly at the silky en- 
velope of the beautiful moth. 

After Marjorie’s “ find,” the others were all more 
eager in their search, and before leaving the chestnut 
woods Lucy, Miss Gray and Ferdinand were each suc- 
cessful in securing cocoons, but, as nearly as could be 
determined, these were the envelope of lunas. 

“ Flow for the brook ! ” said Farmer Wyman. 
“There’s where I expect to find the spice-bush silk- 
moth.” 

“ In the water ? ” questioned Lucy, wonderingly. 

“ Ho, my dear, but there are a good many sassafras 
and spice bush and wild cherry trees near the brook, 
and those are the kind of trees that the spice-bush silk- 
moth prefer,” replied the farmer. 

By the time Mrs. Meek rang the big bell to call them 
to the one o’clock dinner, all the party had been suc- 
cessful in finding at least one cocoon ; but Marjorie was 
the only one who had secured a Teleapol/yphemus. She 
had resolved to take it to Boston to show to Sophronia 
and Ann. Mrs. Streeter told her that if the cocoon 
was kept in a warm room the moth might emerge as 


53 


Alexander s Cocoon Party 

early as February, and Marjorie was sure that it would 
be a beautiful thing to watch it, with its great wings 
so rich in color. 

“ What shall we do with these? ” questioned Adrienne, 
as she walked toward the farmhouse with Marjorie and 
Ada. 

“ Mother says that we needn’t pay any attention to 
them,” said Ada. “We can put them on top of a book- 
case and leave them ; and when spring comes the moths 
know it, just as the flowers do, and they begin to pre- 
pare to come out, and, the first thing we know, there 
they are, waving their beautiful wings up and down 
and looking as if they had just come from fairy-land.” 

“ It will be something to tell ‘ the Six ’ about, won’t 
it ? ” suggested Adrienne ; “ only they would think it 
was a fairy story unless they could reaUy see the moths 
come out from the cocoons.” 

“ The Six ” were six little girls in Boston, who were 
the friends of the Ashley girls, and whom the “ Mar. 
jorie Club” were pledged to help. They had all 
visited Farmer Wyman and Miss Wing, and had 
enjoyed many happy days with their Ashley friends. 
The “ Marjorie Club ” had helped these little girls to 
many useful and pleasant things. 

“ I’m going to take my cocoon to Boston for So- 
phronia and Ann to see ; and perhaps Mrs. Melchin 
will ask ‘ the Six ’ to come and see it. You know she 
gave them a doll party at her house,” responded Mar- 
jorie. 


54 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ ‘ The Six ’ are getting to be big girls,” said Ada 
thoughtfully, but before either of her companions 
could respond Alexander came up with the request to 
be allowed to look at the cocoon Marjorie had found. 

“ I’m going to hunt right hard for one like this,” he 
said as he handed it back to her. 

After dinner Alexander showed them his collection 
of butterflies and moths; many of these were very 
beautiful. 

“ How do you ever catch them ? ” questioned Adri- 
enne, and Alexander showed them his butterfly net, 
made of a delicately meshed net attached to a round 
hoop, forming a deep wide-mouthed bag, which he had 
fastened to a pole. 

“ Maybe they’d enjoy looking at your oak plantation, 
Alexander,” suggested Mrs. Meek. She was very 
proud of the fact that Alexander already knew more 
about the plants, birds, and insects of the country than 
the boys of the village, and encouraged and helped 
him in all his efforts to add to his knowledge. 

“ He’s going to find out a good many important 
things right on this farm,” she confided to Miss Gray 
as they followed Alexander into the big kitchen. “ I 
shouldn’t be a bit surprised if he wrote a book about 
such things as trees and birds and moths some day.” 

On the wide window-shelf of the eastern window 
stood a row of wide-necked fruit jars. ‘‘ This is my 
oak plantation,” said Alexander, a little shyly, pointing 
to the jars. 


55 


Alexander s Cocoon Party 

Each of the jars was about half-filled with water. 
The tops were covered by neatly-fitted circles of white 
paper. Suspended from these circles of cardboard by 
a strong thread, hanging points down, were acorns, 
one in each jar, and hanging just above the water. 

In one jar the acorn had burst its shell and a little 
root was growing downward. In another, a number of 
roots could be seen and a stem had reached upward, a 
hole had been cut for it in the white paper cover, and a 
tiny oak tree was making its appearance. 

“ I reckon I’ll try some chestnuts, too,” said Alex- 
ander, as his guests exclaimed over his “ oak plantation.” 

“ Why, I can do that in Boston,” said Marjorie. “ I 
know Sophronia and Ann would think it was wonder- 
ful. I could keep the bottles in my window ; the sun 
shines in all the morning.” 

“You think about those girls all the time,” said 
Adrienne a little complainingly. “ Why don’t you 
think about me? I’m going to South Carolina next 
week for all winter ! ” And Adrienne tried to throw a 
very despondent note into her voice. 

“And live with my mother and father, and go to 
school to my Aunt Maria, with dear Betty and Try- 
phosa and Grace and Edith,” responded Marjorie 
laughingly. “ Oh, you can’t expect me to be sorry for 
you, Adrienne.” 

“You would be there too, Marjorie, if you hadn’t 
bothered your head about those mill girls,” said Adri- 
enne a little scornfully. 


56 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Do you remember the first time we saw Sophronia, 
the day of the picnic at the plantation ? ” asked 
Marjorie. 

“Indeed I do, and of all the poor looking girls I 
ever saw Sophronia was certainly the worst,” answered 
Adrienne. “ Why, she wasn’t even clean ! ” 

“ No, I’m afraid she wasn’t,” agreed Marjorie. 
“Well, if I hadn’t thought about her, she would be 
just like that now, wouldn’t she? Only more tired, 
more dirty, perhaps.” 

“You’re a brick, Marjorie!” declared Adrienne. 
“ Some way you make all of us want to help people. I 
suppose I’ll be looking out for another Andromeda 
before spring ! ” 

“ I hope you wiU,” said Marjorie with a little laugh. 
“ You see, I have to think about Sophronia and Ann, 
because that’s what Mrs. Melchin wants me at her 
house for. I’m almost afraid, Adrienne, that she may 
not want to keep them ! ” 

“ Why not ? Why, it would be dreadful if she 
didn’t ! ” declared Adrienne. 

“ It would be all my fault,” said Marjorie solemnly, 
and before she could explain Mrs. Streeter’s voice 
called them to come back to the sitting-room and 
see some wonderful hoods that Mrs. Meek was just 
finishing for “the Six,” in whom she was greatly 
interested. 

As the clock struck four Alexander brought the big 
wagon up to the porch steps. 


57 


Alexander' s Cocoon Party 

“It’s been a lovely party, Alexander,” said Miss 
Gray, as she took her place in the v\ragon, “ and you 
have taught me a good deal to-day.” 

This seemed a very wonderful thing to Alexander^ 
and he said it over to himself as he stood on the porch 
steps and watched his friends drive away. 

On the ride home Miss Wing had Marjorie’s seat 
beside Farmer Wyman, and Marjorie and Adrienne sat 
together. 

“ This makes me think of our ride on David’s coach 
to Columbia,” said Marjorie. “ Do you remember how 
Tryphosa and Madame Savory sang ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ; let us sing,” responded Adrienne. 
“We’ll sing, just as your aunt drank her spiced milk, 
‘ to absent friends,’ ” and a moment later the girlish 
voices began the same old song that they had sung 
months before when riding over the beautiful South 
Carolina road. 

“ Oh, dear, what can the matter be ! 

Oh, dear, what can the matter be, 

Oh, dear, what can the matter be, 

Johnny^ s so long at the fair.” 


CHAPTER YI 


maejoeie’s mistake 

The room given to Sophronia and her sister in Mrs. 
Melchin’s Boston house faced the east, and the morning 
sun made it very bright and pleasant. There were two 
large windows, and from these the little girls could 
look out over the roofs of other houses toward the 
blue waters of the harbor. They could see the tall 
granite shaft of Bunker Hill, and were now familiar 
with the story of the great battle of the Revolution. 
Mrs. Melchin had taken the little girls to Concord and 
Lexington and told them of the attack and defeat of 
the British troops. But none of these great facts had so 
impressed Sophronia as had the story of “Robinson 
Crusoe.” She believed that to be as real and true as 
history itself. 

Their room seemed very beautiful to the sisters. It 
had two little white beds, two bureaus, two chairs and 
a round low table of just the right height to rest a 
book on, or to spread out paper dolls, or on which to 
set a work-basket. The walls were tinted a soft yel- 
low, and the floor covering was of dull brown. There 
was only one picture on the walls, a copy of Guido’s 
“ St. Michael,” and both the children loved the beauti- 
58 


Marjorie's Mistake ^9 

ful head with its wonderful expression of firmness and 
tenderness. 

A little bath room opened from their chamber, and 
Ann considered the bath tub, with its shining nickel 
faucets and the spotlessness of the porcelain, as a most 
beautiful and wonderful object. 

Marjorie’s room was on the same floor, facing on the 
front. Her ^vindows looked down on the tall trees of 
the Common, the high buildings beyond, and the towers 
and spires of many churches. The wonderful sunset 
glows of dull crimson fading into pink behind the dis- 
tant spires, the myriads of lights that glimmered from 
the shop windows on Tremont Street, made her often 
think that it was a very wonderful thing that a scene 
of such beauty at the beginning ol every evening was 
spread out before her ; and she oft m called Sophronia 
and Ann into her room at sunset to look out with her. 

Marjorie’s room was the same size as that of her 
friends, and furnished in much the same manner with 
the exception of a low desk that stood between the 
front windows. There were two broad shelves above 
this desk for Marjorie’s books, and on one of these 
shelves rested the cocoons she had brought in from 
Ashley. The colored maid, Cora, had a room on the 
same floor. 

As Marjorie sat at her desk one afternoon a fortnight 
after the party at Farmer Wyman’s, she was not 
thinking of her pleasant surroundings or even of all 
that she hoped to do for the little mill girls ; she was 


6o Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

thinking of her mother and father and of the far-off 
Southern home, where Miss Wing, with Adrienne and 
Lucy Wilson, were already installed. 

There was no sunset glow this afternoon, and if 
there had been Marjorie would not have seen it, for she 
was homesick. The skies were dull and gray outside, a 
cold wind thrashed about among the Common’s big 
trees, and now and then a spiteful dash of rain came 
against the windows. 

Mrs. Melchin was taking her usual afternoon nap, 
and the house was very quiet. Now and then Marjorie 
was conscious of a murmur of voices from the back 
room, where Sophronia and Ann were conscientiously 
trying to prepare their lessons for the next day. Mar- 
jorie knew just how hard this was for them to do with- 
out her help. Twice she had heard them tiptoe to 
her door and rap softly, but she had not answered and 
they had gone softly away. 

“ I don’t care if they do want me to help them,” she 
said to herself, as she sat with head over the desk ; “ it’s 
awful to be in this big city with nobody belonging to 
me. Awful ! ” and she sobbed quietly over her own 
loneliness. “ I reckon I’ll go home ; father said I 
could,” she decided, and raising her head she looked 
out into the gray world, now rapidly growing dark. 
She saw the lights flash out in the tall windows, but 
with no sense of their beauty, for her thoughts were all 
fixed on herself. 

“ I’ll tell Mrs. Melchin I can’t stay ! ” she thought 


6i 


Marjorie s Mistake 

getting up to turn on the electric light that hung over 
her desk. “ I reckon if I go home Mrs. Melchin will 
just have to send Sophronia and Ann to the orphan 
asylum. Aunt Maria says it’s a real good place ; any- 
way it’s a sight better than living the way they always 
have.” 

As Marjorie talked to herself the little clock on her 
desk struck the hour of five. In a few minutes Mrs. 
Melchin would expect the three little girls to come to 
her in the library. Dinner was served at six, then they 
all returned to the library, listened to music or Mar- 
jorie read aloud for a while, and at eight they said 
good-night to Mrs. Melchin and went to bed. 

Oh, dear,” grumbled Marjorie as another tap came 
at her door. “ Come in,” and the door swung open and 
Sophronia appeared. 

“ We-uns is all ready,” she announced smilingly. 

“ ‘ We-uns,’ ” echoed Marjorie scornfully. “ What is 
the use of your trying to learn anything, if you are 
going to keep on talking that way ? ‘We-uns,’ ” and 
without another word Marjorie pushed past Sophronia 
and ran down-stairs. 

Sophronia stood looking after her with wondering 
eyes. The smile faded from her face. Marjorie had 
never before been impatient or unkind toward her, and 
Sophronia was sure that this change could mean only 
one thing, and that was that Marjorie was tired of her, 
had ceased to be her friend. 

“ I reckon she’s right,” the little mill girl whispered 


62 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

to herself. “ ’Tain’t no manner of use for we-uns — us 
— to try to learn. No manner of use,” and she sighed 
sorrowfully. ‘‘ Miss Marjorie’s mighty sorry she ever 
took up with us,” she said to Ann, as she went back 
into their room. Ann looked up in surprise, and at the 
sight of her sister’s gloomy face her own smile faded. 

“ What have we done ? ” she asked. 

Sophronia shook her head. 

“ Then it’s all right ! ” declared Ann. “ I reckon 
you’d know if we’d done something wrong, and if you 
don’t know, why, then we haven’t. And I don’t be- 
lieve that Mrs. Melchin is sorry she took up with us. 
Mrs. Melchin says ‘ dear ’ to me right often ; and she 
says I learn right fast. Your old Marjorie is just 
cross ! ” and Ann again fixed her eyes on the book of 
wonderful pictures, as if the whole question was settled 
to the satisfaction of every one concerned. 

But an instant later she screamed in surprise, for 
Sophronia had grasped her by the shoulders and was 
shaking her vigorously. 

“ Take it right back ! This minute, Andromeda Cutts ! 
The likes of you-uns calling Miss Mariorie cross ! Take 
it back ! ” 

The shaking ceased, but Sophronia stood over the 
frightened Ann evidently waiting for Ann to retract. 

“ Miss Marjorie Avas just like an angel to us, and you 
know it, Ann. We was miserable till she began look- 
ing after us. ’Tain’t her fault if we are too stupid to 
learn. ’Course she’s ’shamed of us.” 


Marjorie s Mistake 63 

It was this that Marjorie heard as she stood outside 
the open door. Mrs. Melchin had sent her back to tell 
Sophronia and Ann to come down, and Marjorie had 
come, a little reluctantly, and had reached the doorway 
in time to see Sophronia administer the vigorous shak- 
ing, and to hear herself called an “ angel.” 

“ ‘ Angel ’ indeed ! ” she whispered to herself. “ I’m 
a horrid selfish thiug, and I’m going to tell them so this 
minute. Sophronia,” she called, “ I heard what Ann 
said and she’s just right, only I was worse than cross. 
I’m the one you ought to shake,” and she managed to 
smile as she came into the room. “ I don’t suppose 
you can forget how horrid I was, can you, Sophronia ? ” 
and she put her arm across Sophronia’s shoulders. 

“ Everybody is cross at times,” announced little Ann. 
“ I reckon there isn’t much harm in saying so.” 

Sophronia did not even hear what Ann was saying ; 
she was looking at Marjorie with adoring eyes. 

“ Come on,” said Marjorie. “ Mr. Field and Luke 
are down-stairs ; they are going to stay to dinner. Mr. 
Field has brought a lot of pictures for us to see. Come 
on,” and the three girls went down to the library. 
Marjorie had quite forgot her homesickness. Ann’s 
declaration that she, Marjorie, was “ cross ” had struck 
home ; while Sophronia’s loyal faith in her made Mar- 
jorie realize how much she meant to them. “ They 
never shall go to an asylum, never ! ” she whispered 
to herself. “ I’ll go myself before I’ll let Sophronia go.” 

“ I have not forgotten the ‘ surprise ’ I promised you, 


64 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Marjorie,” said Mr. Field, as they gathered about the 
library table to look at the sketches he had brought ; 
“ but so much happened that day that I decided to post- 
pone it until after Miss Wing had gone South.” 

“ They are having lovely times at home,” responded 
Marjorie. 

Mrs. Melchin looked at her little guest anxiously, and 
noticed that Marjorie was not her usual happy self. 
The old lady sighed a little. During the summer she 
had found the two mill children a good deal of care, 
and had decided that unless Marjorie came to stay 
through the winter she would be obliged to find another 
home for them. Now it seemed to her that Marjorie 
was not contented. 

“ Homesick, like as not,” thought Mrs. Melchin. 
“ Well, if she goes home I’ll find a good place for So- 
phronia ; maybe I could manage to keep little Ann. 
I’ll think it over.” 

“We are going to have good times right here in Bos- 
ton,” Mr. Field continued. “Wait until you know 
about my surprise.” 

Luke nodded smilingly, as if he knew aU about it, 
and as if it was indeed something wonderful ; and Mar- 
jorie began to feel interested, and to forget the dull un- 
happy afternoon, and her unkindness toward Sophronia. 

“ When is this remarkable ‘ surprise ’ to occur ? ” 
asked Mrs. Melchin. 

“ Next Saturday afternoon is the time set,” responded 
Mr. Field. 


Marjorie s Mistake 65 

“ A very suitable time,” said his hostess. “ I am go- 
ing to a lecture that afternoon and you can take charge 
of my family,” and she smiled and nodded to Marjorie. 

“And where is the ‘surprise’ to be?” Marjorie 
asked. 

“ At my studio,” answered Mr. Field, “ at two 
o’clock.” 

“An excellent hour,” said Mrs. Melchin. “I will 
bring the girls, and I will come after them at four 
o’clock ; and they are not to start for home until I do 
come.” 

“ No, indeed ! ” agreed Marjorie promptly. 

All the evening Sophronia’s eyes rested questioningly 
first on Mrs. Melchin, then on Marjorie. She did not 
seem to even notice the beautiful pictures, and once or 
twice failed to respond when spoken to. The happy 
brightness had died out of her face, and as Mrs. 
Melchin looked at her she said to herself that So- 
phronia looked stupid, “ and I begin to believe she is,” 
decided the old lady. “ Dear me, dear me ! They’ve 
got me into a great deal of trouble, I’m afraid, with 
these mill children ; and I don’t see as Marjorie is going 
to help me out much. Dear me ! ” 

When Mr. Field and Luke started for home it was 
raining, and a cold east wind swept down Beacon Hill. 
The girls went up-stairs to bed, and Ann was soon fast 
asleep, but Marjorie lay long awake. She could not 
forgive herself for having been so unkind to Sophronia. 
Sophronia lay staring into the darkness, and listening 


66 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

to the wind and rain. “ I reckon Mrs. Melchin would 
let Ann stay,” she thought to herself. “ Ann’s younger 
and littler and smarter than I be. If I was gone like as 
not she’d keep Ann till she grew up,” and with this 
pleasant thought her eyes closed and she forgot her 
troubles in sleep. 


^ CHAPTEE YII 

MK. field’s “ SURPEISE ” 

Marjorie had brought a number of acorns and 
chestnuts home from Farmer Wyman, and had care- 
fully followed Alexander’s directions in putting them 
in the small glass jars that Cora smilingly provided for 
her. These jars were set in one of the windows of 
Sophronia’s room, and every day the two sisters looked 
eagerly for the appearance of the delicate sprouts. 
After they began to show the girls were greatly inter- 
ested and watched for the stem, turning upward 
toward the light, from which the tiny tree would grow. 
The parrots were a continual source of wonder to So- 
phronia and Ann, and they never tired of listening to 
“ I^ero’s ” brief statements, or to “ Pickwick’s ” “ Well ! 
Well ! ” 

There were many beautiful and wonderful things in 
the old mansion to interest and entertain two little 
girls who had seen as little as had Sophronia and Ann. 
There were no memories of a home, and of happy times 
within a loving circle of friends to make them home- 
sick. They had never even dreamed of such good 
fortune as now surrounded them. To Sophronia these 
happy surroundings seemed all due to Marjorie. Her 
67 


68 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

heart was filled with gratitude toward the girl who had 
been the first to be sorry for her, and to take some 
trouble to help her. All her life Sophronia would 
think of Marjorie as her best friend. 

Ann accepted the great change in their lives quite as 
a matter of course, and did not think, as Sophronia did, 
that Marjorie was always right in everything she said 
and did. Ann was evidently Mrs. Melchin’s favorite. 
The little girl was taking piano lessons, and Mrs. 
Melchin sat beside the big piano for a half hour every 
morning to direct her practice. 

“ It don’t seem as if I could wait until Saturday,” de- 
clared Marjorie, on the morning after Mr. Field’s visit, 
as she and Sophronia stood looking out of the library 
window. “ I do wonder what the ‘ surprise ’ can be. 
What do you suppose it is, Sophronia ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” Sophronia answered very precisely. 
She had made a firm resolve that morning to be very 
careful in regard to her speech ; never to say “ we-uns ” 
again as long as she lived, and to do everything she 
could to please Marjorie. She had also made another 
resolve : if she made mistakes and Marjorie got tired 
of her she would go away. Sophronia knew just 
where she would go. She would go to Cambridge and 
take care of Charles Edward in the beautiful rooms 
over the grocery store. 

Sophronia was glad to remember that Charles 
Edward had “ taken ” to her. His mother had said so, 
and had told Sophronia that if she ever wanted a 


Mr. Field’s Surprise'” 69 

chance to take care of a baby to come right to her, for 
Mrs. Field had also “ taken ” to the serious-eyed, quiet 
little girl. Sophronia was almost glad that she had 
discovered Cambridge by herself. It was very pleasant 
to her to feel that two people had liked her and would 
be glad to see her again. 

“ I wouldn’t run away,” she decided, “ for that 
would make trouble ; they’d think they must find me. 
I’d just tell Mrs. Melchin not to bother ’bout me, that 
I was going over to take keer — care — of Charles Ed- 
ward. ’Course, of course,” — Sophronia was now try- 
ing very hard to remember to use the right words, and 
corrected her mistakes very promptly, — “ of course I 
shall try right hard to please Miss Marjorie so that I 
can stay here with Ann.” 

“ Don’t you wonder what the surprise is, So- 
phronia ? ” asked Marjorie. “ You haven’t said a 
word about it.” 

“ ISTo, I don’t wonder,” answered Sophronia. 

Marjorie looked at her a little wistfully. Sophronia 
seemed so different this morning. She spoke so 
slowly, “ almost as if she did not want to speak at all,” 
thought Marjorie. “ It’s my fault,” she acknowledged 
to herself, and was very kind and thoughtful of her 
little friends all that morning and for many days to 
come. 

“ I know it will be lovely, and you will have a 
splendid time, Sophronia,” she continued. “Now I 
must start for school, and when I get home I’ll read 


70 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

to you and Ann from that new book Mrs. Melchingave 
us.” 

“ Thank you,” responded Sophronia. “ Will you tell 
me what a ‘ dictionary ’ is, Marjorie ? ” 

“ Why, that big book on the table is a dictionary,” 
answered Marjorie ; “ it tells what each word means. 
Good-bye,” and Sophronia was alone with “ Pickwick ” 
and ‘‘ Nero,” who were both very busy with bits of 
apple. 

Sophronia looked at the big leather-covered diction- 
ary in admiring surprise. She had asked Cora that 
morning how people knew what words were the right 
words to use, and Cora had answered, ‘‘ By the diction- 
ary.” 

“ It’ll take a mighty long time, I reckon,” thought 
Sophronia, but she opened the big book determined 
that, sooner or later, she would learn all the “ right ” 
words, and when Mrs. Melchin came into the library a 
few minutes later she found Sophronia laboriously 
spelling out words and their meaning. 

The Saturday which Mr. Field had set for the girls 
to come to his studio was the week before Thanks- 
giving, and proved a clear sunny day. In the morning 
Marjorie had a music lesson, and after that was over 
she taught little Ann how to darn a stocking. As Ann 
came into Marjorie’s room, Marjorie gave a little sigh ; 
for she could not help but remember her gay happy 
mornings at home with Betty Savory, and in Ashley 
with Adrienne and Ada. Ann seemed a very poor 


Mr. Field's ^‘Surprise" 71 

substitute for these friends, but Marjorie was begin- 
ning to realize what it meant to think of others, 
instead of her own pleasure, and giving Ann her own 
little rocking-chair, she sat down beside her and began 
teaching her how to darn. “ My mother says this is 
one of the line arts,” she told Ann, as she deftly sent 
her needle over and under the delicate threads. 

“ What’s a ‘ fine art ’ ? ” questioned Ann. 

“ Why, darning,” laughingly responded Marjorie, “ if 
you do it well enough. Music and pictures and poems 
are fine art, I suppose,” and, wishing to change the 
subject, Marjorie asked, What is Sophronia doing ? ” 

“ Studying the dictionary,” answered Ann. “ Do 
you reckon we’ll all come home from the surprise ? ” 
she asked, a little soberly. ‘‘We didn’t that day Mr. 
Field took us to walk.” 

“ Of course we will, Ann.” 

“ Mebbe,” said the little girl doubtfully. Sophronia 
had explained to Ann just what the dictionary had to 
say about the word “ surprise,” and neither of the 
girls had felt that a word of such meaning could 
promise much pleasure. To Marjorie it meant only 
wonderful and unexpected delights. She determined 
that she would do her best to make Ann and Sophronia 
enjoy it, even if it could not be for her like the happy 
days at the plantation and at Ashley. 

It was Luke who opened the studio door for the 
three girls, and who showed them into a small room 
where they were to leave their coats and hats. 


72 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ You^ll like the surprise,” he assured Mai’jorie. 
“ Come out in the studio when you get ready,” and a 
moment later, closely followed by Ann and Sophronia, 
Marjorie opened the studio door, and, to the half -terri- 
fied surprise of her companions, ran eagerly forward ex- 
claiming, “ Ada ! Ada ! Oh, this is a lovely surprise ! ” 

“ But I am not the surprise at all,” responded Ada 
laughingly. “ Or, if I am,” she continued, “ I am 
Mrs. Melchin’s surprise. She wrote and asked mother 
to let me come up this morning, and to stay over Sun- 
day with you ! ” 

“ Isn’t that splendid ! I never was so glad ! ” de- 
clared Marjorie happily. “ I was wishing this morning 
that we could have some of our Ashley good times over.” 

“ Do you like the girls in Miss Kay’s school ? ” asked 
Ada. 

“I don’t know any of them very well,” answered 
Marjorie. ‘‘ You see, after school I hurry home so 
that Sophronia and Ann won’t bother Mrs. Melchin.” 

While Ada and Marjorie were talking Mr. Field had 
taken charge of the other two girls and was showing 
them some of Luke’s remarkable carvings in wood of 
birds and animals. 

“ I reckon this is fine art,” ventured Ann. 

“ Yes, indeed,” agreed Mr. Field. “ Now you must 
come and be introduced to Marjorie’s friend, Ada 
Streeter,” and he led them across the studio to where 
the two friends were standing. 

“ Is she the ‘ surprise ’ ? ” Ann found courage to ask, 


Mr. Field's Surprise" 73 

and was evidently disappointed at Mr. Field’s reply 
that Ada was only a visitor, like themselves. 

A curtain of dull green cloth was stretched across 
one end of the long room, and Luke was now busy 
bringing in chairs, which he set in rows across the 
studio, facing the curtain. He had just finished this 
employment when the studio bell rang, and he and 
Mr. Field both hurried out to answer it. There was a 
murmur of voices, and the door opened to admit Miss 
Kay, the head of the private school where Marjorie 
was now a day pupil. Close behind Miss Kay came 
the members of her school, walking very sedately, but 
turning to smile and nod to Marjorie, for Mr. Field 
had included all her schoolmates in this “ surprise,” 
and when Miss Kay had given them the invitation for 
an afternoon at the artist’s studio she had explained 
that Mr. Field was a friend of Marjorie Philips, and 
the entertainment was for her. So they were all 
disposed to become better acquainted with the little 
Southern girl. 

Marjorie at once took Ada, Sophronia and Ann and 
introduced them to Miss Kay, where Luke had reserved 
seats for them. Mr. Field had vanished behind the 
green curtain. Marjorie had been so surprised by 
finding Ada at the studio, and then by the arrival of 
the girls with whom she went to school, that now she 
wondered if anything more surprising could happen. 
Just then a little bell tinkled. The girls all became 
very quiet and a little figure in a scarlet cloak, a pointed 


74 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

cap with a white plume, and high white boots came 
out at one side of the curtain, lifted the plumed cap in 
graceful salutation, and “ Felicita ! ” both Ada and 
Marjorie exclaimed. 

The little Italian girl smiled radiantly at the sound 
of her name. Her dancing black eyes rested for a 
moment upon her friends. Then, evidently quite at 
her ease, she once more donned her cap, bowed low, 
and began in a clear, musical voice : 

“ Listen, I’ve a pleasant story 
Now to tell you, here to show you. 

Story of a tree so wondrous, 

All who see, and all who listen, 

Will rejoice that I have told them. 

Will rejoice that I have shown them, 

How a tree of many blossoms. 

All of use and all of beauty. 

Each may own and each may treasure. ” 

Felicita made her pretty bow and disappeared behind 
the curtain. As she vanished there was heard a merry 
tinkling sound and a number of little figures came 
trotting out from the other side of the green curtain. 
When they reached the center they stopped and bowed 
very low. They were Marie, Anna, Lottie, May and 
Dottie, “the Six.” 

Marie, in a somewhat uncertain voice, announced ; 

“ I am a fairy, shut up in the tree ; 

I sing in the leaves, as glad as can be. 

My name is Contentment, and, as you will see, 

I’m gay as a bird and as smart as a bee.” 


75 


Mr. Field's Surprise" 

She bowed quickly, and tinkled off behind the cur- 
tain. Anna came next. It was evidently a very seri- 
ous occasion for this little girl ; she spoke very slowly 
and distinctly. 

am Patience, and I give 
Strength so that the tree may live, 

Never sad, yet never gay. 

I bring joy with every day.^^ 

Lottie, May and Dottie announced themselves re- 
spectively as Kindness, Truth and Friendship. Then 
the green curtain was drawn aside. A little murmur 
of admiration was heard from the audience. The stage 
was set to represent a forest dell. The ground was 
carpeted with wonderful fern-like mosses. A bank of 
blossoming azaleas showed behind the delicate green of 
ferns and tiny pine trees. Shrubs with pale yellow 
blossoms shut in the sides, and in the center was a 
wonderful tree. 

“ It’s a holly,” declared Marjorie, noticing its glossy 
green leaves and bright red berries. 

“ A holly doesn’t have oranges, and apples and roses 
on it,” responded Ada, in a whisper. 

In fact, as Marjorie looked more closely, it seemed 
to her that there was every kind of a flower on this re- 
markable tree. There were white lilies, roses, peonies, 
blue larkspur, and apple blossoms. As they all looked 
at the stage there came a little shower of golden flakes 
down over the beautiful tree, and now, led by “ Con- 


76 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

tentment,” the six little girls came dancing and tinkling 
onto the stage. They formed in a ring about the tree^ 
joined hands, and with graceful steps circled about in 
time to the gay tune that seemed to rise from behind 
the bank of azaleas. As they danced a little cloud of 
butterflies came drifting down among them. Wonder- 
ful butterflies ; as big as your two hands, with wings of 
blue and scarlet and silver. Then, as the others danced, 
“ Contentment ” came a step or two nearer the admir- 
ing audience, made her graceful salutation, and in clear 
tones recited : 

“ Here^s a bit of a song, to take along, 

To remember every day, 

^Tis, ^ If you do right you canT go wrong, 

And Kindness will show the way.’ ” 

The music had stopped now, and the little dancers 
were taking from the tree the wonderful blossoms and 
throwing them to the audience. 

“ Oh ! They’re only paper flowers,” exclaimed Ann 
in a disappointed voice, as a big rose came tumbling 
into her outstretched hands. 

“ And only paper butterflies,” said one of the school- 
girls, “ but they are lovely, just the same.” 

Luke had made the butterflies and painted them. He 
had attached them to tiny threads and fastened these 
to a slender rod which, at the proper moment, he had 
suspended over the dancing children. 

Miss Kay’s girls were all eager for a butterfly or a 


77 


Mr. Field's Surprise” 

flower as a souvenir of the afternoon, and Marjorie 
found herself surrounded by friendly faces and, before 
the time of departure arrived, began to feel very well 
acquainted with her schoolmates. Several of them 
asked if they could not come and see her, and they were 
all friendly and kind toward Sophronia and Ann, and 
greatly interested in the six little dancers. 

“ It has been the most wonderful day ! ” declared 
Marjorie, when Mrs. Melchin arrived to take her charges 
home. 

“ Mr. Field, it was lovely to make so many people 
happy,” she said, as she bade her good friend good-bye 
and thanked him for the surprise. 

“ And having Ada for over Sunday is the very best 
part of it,” she said to Mrs. Melchin. 

The old lady nodded approvingly. “ I hoped you 
would think so, my dear. I’m sure I do,” she responded, 
smiling at Ada. 


CHAPTER YIII 


ADA’S VISIT 

“ Ada ! I never was so glad of anything as I was 
to see you to-day ! ” declared Marjorie, as the two girls 
went up to Marjorie’s room. 

“ Then you know just how glad I am to be here,” 
responded Ada. “ And just think, Marjorie, I never 
stayed all night in Boston in my life. And this is such 
a wonderful house. Do you like all those girls you go 
to school with, Marjorie ? ” 

Marjorie shook her head. “ I don’t like one single 
girl in that school, and not one single girl likes me,” 
she declared. 

Ada looked at her friend in surprise. She could not 
quite believe that Marjorie was serious. In Ashley all 
the school children had liked Marjorie, and Ada had 
supposed that going to a new school would mean new 
friends. 

“Probably it’s because you are not very well ac- 
quainted yet,” suggested Ada ; “ they all seemed pleas- 
ant this afternoon.” 

“ Of course they did.” Marjorie’s voice had a little 
note in it that Ada had never heard before. “ They 
were pleasant to me to-day because, you see, the whole 
78 


Ada s Visit 


79 

affair at the studio was really for me, and they were 
all asked because they go to the same school I do.” 

“ Haven’t they been pleasant to you before ? ” ques- 
tioned Ada. 

The two friends were now comfortably established 
on the broad window-seat, where they could look out 
toward the western skies. 

“ Hot what I call pleasant,” said Marjorie. “ They 
all say ‘ Good-morning ’ to me when they can’t help it, 
and one or two will smile, when we meet in the hall or 
on the street. But that isn’t like going to school with 
friends.” 

For a moment Ada did not respond, then she asked : 
“ Are you the only girl in the school whose home is in 
some other place than Boston ? ” 

“ Ho, indeed ! One girl is from Ohio, and one from 
Texas, I heard Miss Kent tell Mrs. Melchin the first day 
I was at school,” replied Marjorie. 

“ Do you know those girls ? ” asked Ada. 

“ I’ve said ‘ Good-morning ’ to them.” There was a 
questioning note in Marjorie’s voice, as if she were won- 
dering why Ada was so interested in girls from Ohio 
and Texas. 

“ I wonder if they, the girl from Ohio and the one 
from Texas, ever feel the way you do,” said Ada. “ I 
know I should, Marjorie. I should be homesick any- 
way to be away from father and mother, but if I was 
at school with girls who were friendly and liked me it 
wouldn’t be so bad.” 


8o Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

I know what you are thinking, Ada. I know just 
as well as if you had said it,” said Marjorie, resting one 
hand on Ada’s arm. “ You are thinking that if I had 
thought about those girls, and been pleasant toward 
them, that they would be my friends, and that I 
shouldn’t be homesick. Honest! Wasn’t that just 
what you were thinking ? ” 

Ada smiled at Marjorie’s earnestness. “ Why, I sup- 
pose I was thinking something of the kind. I wasn’t 
blaming you, Margie ; of course you know that. But 
you know my mother tells me that I must always go 
and speak to new girls, and must try and make it pleas- 
ant for them, so I was wondering if you hadn’t been a 
little ‘ stand-offy ’ with those girls.” 

“ The Texas girl hasn’t spoken to me,” said Marjorie. 
“ I don’t see why I should be the one.” 

“ Never mind about those girls ; tell me about this 
wonderful house, and about Sophronia and Ann,” inter- 
rupted Ada. ‘‘You can’t think how excited I am to be 
here. Why, if I should ever go to Paris or to Alexan- 
dria, it wouldn’t seem more remarkable than it does to 
be in Boston at Mrs. Melchin’s,” and Ada suddenly 
sprang up from the window-seat and did a graceful lit- 
tle dance step around the room. 

Marjorie laughed happil}^ “ I do wish I could see 
you every day, Ada. We always have such good 
times.” 

“You’ll be telling me of your good times with Miss 
Ohio and Miss Texas, the next time I see you,” replied 


Adds Visit 8i 

Ada, “ and don’t you have good times with Sophronia 
and Ann ? ” 

“ Sophronia and Ann ? ” Marjorie repeated. 

“ Why, yes. Of course Ann is younger, but we al- 
ways liked to play with Lucy Wilson, and Ann seems 
good-natured. They are right here in the house, so I 
should think you could have real good times to- 
gether.” 

“I never thought about having good times with 
Sophronia and Ann,” said Marjorie. “ I have always 
thought about helping them, and — and ” Mar- 
jorie hesitated, and then exclaimed, “ There ! I know 
exactly what I am. I’m a snob ! Yes, I am. A snob 
thinks she is better than some one else, and quite supe- 
rior to most other people. I have just thought how 
fine I was to get Sophronia away from the mill. I 
have been horrid^ Ada!” and Marjorie sat up very 
straight and did not look at her friend. 

“ W ell, try having a good time with Sophronia. Let’s 
begin now,” suggested Ada. 

“ How ? ” Marjorie’s voice was eager. 

Ada shook her head, with a little laugh. 

“Would you ask them to come in here?” asked 
Marjorie. 

“ Can’t we go in their room ? ” 

“ Come on ! ” Marjorie was on her way to the door 
with Ada close behind her. 

The door of Sophronia and Ann’s room was partly 
open. Sophronia sat there alone ; an open dictionary 


82 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

lay on the table beside her, but Sophronia was not 
spelling out words ; she was sitting in the dusk think- 
ing about Charles Edward. 

“ I’ll turn on the light,” said Marjorie. “ Where’s 
Ann ? ” 

‘‘She is practicing on the pi-ana,” responded So- 
phronia. 

“ You must ask us to sit down, Sophronia ; and you 
must say how glad 3^ou are to see us,” said Marjorie 
smilingly. 

“ Must I, Miss Marjorie ? I am right glad, but I 
didn’t s’pose I had to say so,” responded Sophronia 
seriously. “Won’t you — ^you both have cheers ? ” she 
asked. 

Her two visitors sat down, and Ada carelessly turned 
over the leaves of the dictionary, while Marjorie 
wondered to herself what Sophronia’s idea of a good 
time was. 

“ Sophronia,” she asked suddenly, “ if you could do 
anything you wanted to, what would you do ? ” 

Sophronia sent a quick glance of startled wonder at 
each of her two visitors, then a smile crept over her 
sober face. 

“ I reckon if I could just what I wanted to, that I 
would start right off for that island where Mr. Crusoe 
lived,” she said. 

“ But that was only a make believe island. Eobin- 
son Crusoe was only a make believe himself,” explained 
Marjorie. “ Some one just made believe, you know, 


Ada s Visit 83 

Sophronia, that there was such a man, and wrote the 
story about his being wrecked on a desert island.” 

“ And there wasn’t any such island ? ” demanded 
Sophronia, rising to her feet. 

“ No ! ” declared Marjorie and Ada. 

“ And there wasn’t a man Friday, or a cave or a 
garden, and he didn’t find all those things ? ” 

Marjorie did not know enough to explain how Defoe 
had founded his story on the real experiences of Alex- 
ander Selkirk. 

Why, Sophronia, I supposed you knew that it was 
only a story,” explained Marjorie. “ Of course there 
are islands where people could do many of the things 
told about in that book.” 

“ You read it to me out of a book,” said Sophronia ; 
“ books ought to be true. I reckon this isn’t true 
either,” and she pointed scornfully toward the diction- 
ary. 

“ Yes, indeed ! Of course the dictionary’s true,” 
answered Ada. It seemed very funny to Ada and 
Marjorie that Sophronia should doubt the dictionary, 
but they did not laugh. 

“What would you do, Sophronia — I mean what 
would you like to do next best to finding Crusoe’s is- 
land ? ” insisted Marjorie. 

“ I reckon I won’t tell,” said Sophronia. 

“ But perhaps it is something that you could do,” 
said Ada ; “ the reason we ask, Sophronia, is because 
we would help you if we could.” 


84 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ I reckon I won’t tell,” said Sophronia. She was 
thinking to herself that next best to living on a desert 
island she would like living over a Cambridge grocery 
store and taking care of Charles Edward. “ Seems 
like he wanted me to take keer of him,” she whispered 
to herself, “and nobody here wants me much. I 
reckon they all plans to put up with me on account of 
bein’ sorry for me, but they don’t really want me. 
Not even Miss Marjorie.” 

“ You needn’t tell, Sophronia,” declared Ada, “ and 
I know just how sorry you feel that there isn’t any 
such place as Crusoe’s island ; but I wonder if you like 
picture puzzles ? ” 

Sophronia shook her head. She had never heard of 
a picture puzzle. 

“ It’s great fun,” Ada assured her. “ I have one in 
my bag that I made for Marjorie ; she hasn’t seen it. 
I’ll bring it in now,” and Ada ran back to Marjorie’s 
room, returning in a few moments with a small flat 
box, which she handed to Marjorie. “ It is your pres- 
ent, so perhaps you would like to unwrap it,” she 
said. 

“Thank you, Ada,” and Marjorie untied the cord 
and took off the paper in which the box was wrapped. 
She lifted the cover, and there before her rested a pic- 
ture of her Aunt Maria’s home in Ashley. The com- 
fortable house, the fence, and familiar trees. “ And if 
there isn’t ‘ Sarah Mullins ’ on the porch,” Marjorie ex- 
claimed, pointing toward a responsible looking cat near 


Ada's Visit 


85 

the front door. “ How could you make so good a pic- 
ture, Ada ? ” 

“ I drew it very carefully, then colored it with my 
water-colors and pasted it on cardboard,” explained 
Ada ; “ then I drew the puzzle lines on the other side, 
pinned the picture, picture-side down, on a board, and 
cut the lines with a sharp knife.” 

Marjorie and Sophronia both looked at Ada admir- 
ingly. 

“ There’s the dinner-bell,” exclaimed Marjorie. “We 
must not keep Mrs. Melchin waiting. The picture puz- 
zle is fine, Ada. We’ll do it after dinner, won’t we, So- 
phronia?” and slipping her hand under Sophronia’s 
arm, she led the way down-stairs. 

There was a little smile on Sophronia’s face as she 
took her place at the table. “ Maybe I’m like other 
girls. Maybe I am,” she was whispering to herself. 
“ Miss Marjorie took hold of my arm just the same as 
she did of Ada’s.” 

After dinner the four girls returned to Sophronia’s 
room and the picture puzzle provided them with amuse- 
ment for the hour before bedtime. Sophronia and Ann 
found that here was something they could do just as well 
as Marjorie herself, and both thought it the happiest even- 
ing they had spent in Mrs. Melchin ’s house. They quite 
forofot to think of themselves as of less account than other 
more fortunate girls ; and Marjorie and Ada were so in- 
terested in making the game pleasant for the other two 
girls that they did not think of themselves at all. 


86 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ It was great fun,” declared Marjorie, as she and 
Ada went to their own room. “ It was splendid of you 
to make that picture puzzle for me, Ada. Wasn’t So- 
phronia clever about putting it together ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” responded Ada. 

“I suppose I’ve been selfish, wanting all sorts of 
wonderful girls for friends,” confessed Marjorie. ‘‘ I 
reckon if I had tried to be a little nicer to Sophronia 
and Ann I would have had a good time right in this 
house, and wouldn’t have needed new friends.” 

“ Don’t forget Miss Ohio and Texas,” Ada reminded 
her laughingly. “ Perhaps they haven’t any Sophronia 
or Ann.” 

“ I won’t forget,” Marjorie promised. 


CHAPTER IX 


sophronia’s party 

“I AM going to make picture puzzles,” Sophronia 
said to Ann a few days after Ada’s visit. “ I have 
thought out a splendid way. I told teacher about it 
and she said I might.” 

“ Teacher ” was a brisk young woman who came 
every morning to instruct Ann and Sophronia. When 
the little mill girls came to live with Mrs. Melchin 
neither of them could read nor write. During the 
summer Cora had taught them to read, and to write 
their names. Mrs. Melchin decided that it would not 
be wise to send them to school at present, and employed 
the young lady to come each morning to help the 
girls with their lessons. They were making good 
progress, their teacher said, and hoped they would 
be ready to begin school in another year. 

‘‘ You can’t make picture puzzles,” Ann responded in 
reply to her sister’s statement. “You can’t paint 
pictures.” 

“ I don’t have to. There are all those colored pic- 
tures in those magazines and papers that Mr. Field 
gave us ; and Cora said she would get me some old 
pasteboard boxes, and have cook make me a dish 
of paste. Then, all I have to do is just to stick the 
87 


88 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

pictures on, and mai’k out funny lines on the back, and 
cut them out.” 

“ Where’s your sharp knife ? ” asked Ann. 

“ Cora will get me a sharp knife.” 

“ You’d better ask Miss Marjorie about it before j^ou 
begin, I reckon,” advised Ann. 

‘‘ Yes,” agreed Sophronia. 

The sisters were always pleasant with each other. 
Sophronia was quite sure that every one who saw Ann 
must think her the brightest little girl possible. Ann 
took her sister’s devotion quite for granted, and relied 
upon it as she did upon the sun’s rising each morning, 
both pleasant facts in life that she need not think much 
about. 

Marjorie listened to Sophronia’s plan to make picture 
puzzles with evident interest, and when Sophronia fin- 
ished Marjorie exclaimed : 

“ Sophronia, it will be fine. We will have a picture- 
puzzle party, if Mrs. Melchin is willing, and I’ll ask 
Miss Ohio and Miss Texas. It will be just the thing,” 
and then Marjorie told Sophronia about these two 
schoolmates, with whom she now felt better ac- 
quainted. 

“ ‘ Miss Ohio’s ’ name is really Millicent Hortense 
Trevelyan,” explained Marjorie, “ and she is living with 
an aunt in Brookline. Her aunt is an old maid, and 
doesn’t really want Millicent — that’s what ‘ Miss Ohio ’ 
says — but she can’t get out of it. And ‘ Miss Texas ’ 
lives with some cousins on Pinckney Street. Her name 


Sophronia's Party 89 

is Sarah Jones. She says her cousins love to have her, 
because her father pays them a lot of money to look 
after her. She says they really are her father’s cousins, 
and they are two grown-up women ; and they don’t 
like to have her talk unless it is necessary.” 

“ I reckon it ain’t ever necessary,” ventured So- 
phronia. 

“Of course it is, for girls,” responded Marjorie. 
“ Anyway, neither of them has very good times, and 
they get right homesick. They both said that I was 
the first girl at school who had talked with them ; and 
when I told them that not one single girl had said 
a word to me except ‘ Good-morning,’ or ask me 
‘ Where’s the dictionary ? ’ why, they were real 
pleased.” 

“ How could you have a picture-puzzle party ? ” 
asked Sophronia, who really thought Marjorie did not 
need to bother about girls from Ohio and Texas. 

“I’ll tell you,” responded Marjorie eagerly. “We 
would only ask those two girls ; then there would be 
just five, and we could have it in my room. We’d 
bring your table in there, so as to have plenty of room. 
On one table we would have all the pictures and card- 
board ready to paste, and on the other table we could 
mark out the lines and cut the pictures.” 

“ Maybe they’d get all pasty,” suggested Ann. 

“ That would be part of the fun, but we will ask 
Cora to lend us five big aprons,” said Marjorie ; 
“ that is, if Mrs. Melchin wants us to have the party.” 


90 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Mrs. Melchin listened to Marjorie’s plan with evident 
approval. “But two extra girls does not make a 
party, does it, my dear ? ” she asked. 

“Yes, indeed,” responded Marjorie, “with Sophronia 
and Ann.” 

“ And Marjorie,” added Mrs. Melchin, “ and I sup- 
pose Saturday afternoon is the best time. Well, tell 
Cora and Billings what you want, and if you wish to 
introduce your guests to ‘ Nero ’ and ‘ Pickwick ’ I 
have no objections. I shall not be at home on Sat- 
urday.” 

“It is really your party, Sophronia,” Marjorie de- 
clared, as she told Sophronia that “ Miss Ohio ” and 
“ Miss Texas ” would be glad to come to the puzzle- 
party. “ And, Sophronia, they have been in Boston a 
month, and neither of them has been asked to see any 
other girls. They think it is splendid to come and see 
you and Ann.” 

Sophronia and Ann thought it was splendid, too, 
and were glad that Saturday was so near. They asked 
Marjorie many questions about Millicent Hortense 
Trevelyan and Sarah Jones. 

“ Sarah Jones looks just like Sarah Jones,” declared 
Marjorie. “She isn’t very tall and she isn’t very 
stout or very thin. She isn’t exactly dark, but her 
hair isn’t light, and her eyes are not dark.” 

Sophronia was sure she knew just how Sarah Jones 
looked, but Ann did not understand what Marjorie 
could mean. Ann decided to herself that Marjorie 


Sophronia's Party 91 

was different from other girls, and that Sophronia was 
trying to be like Marjorie. 

“Does Millicent Hortense Trevelyan look like her 
name ? ” questioned Sophronia a little anxiously. 

“No-o,” responded Marjorie, regretfully. “I don’t 
suppose any one could look just like that, at least not 
until she were grown up.” 

“ I reckon a girl would have to grow right tall to 
look like that name,” said Sophronia. 

“ Of course she would,” agreed Marjorie, “ and be 
very beautiful and dignified.” 

Sophronia nodded. 

“ I must go practice,” said Ann, and ran off leaving 
the two older girls together. 

“ Would you just hear me say a few dictionary Avords, 
Miss Marjorie ? ” asked Sophronia. 

“ Yes, ‘ Miss Sophronia,’ ” replied Marjorie laughingly. 

Since Ada’s visit Marjorie had not been homesick. 
Instead of sitting alone in her room she had asked So- 
phronia to bring her books and sit with her ; and had 
begun reading aloud to her from a book that seemed to 
Sophronia far from being equal to “ Kobinson Crusoe.” 

“ It’s better one way, because it is true,” Sophronia 
decided. It was “The Story of Boston,” beginning 
with its early settlement, telling of the Indians who 
formerly lived on the shores of Massachusetts Bay, and 
of the time when the Common was used as a coav pas- 
ture. 

Sophronia had been quick to feel the change in Mar- 


92 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

jorie’s manner toward her. Marjorie had been kind 
always, with the exception of that one quick exclama- 
tion of impatience, but now she treated Sophronia as a 
friend. “ She smiles at me just like she smiled at those 
Ashley girls,” Sophronia thought happily. 

“ I am so glad I spoke to Sarah Jones and Milly 
Trevelyan,” said Marjorie on Saturday morning, as she 
and Sophronia were making preparations for the guests 
of the afternoon. “ Why, Sophronia, you can’t think 
how different it seems to go to school now. You see, 
Milly is always watching for me, and Sarah has things 
to tell me at recess ; and we write letters to each other 
in cypher.” 

“ ‘ Cypher ! ’ ” echoed Sophronia ; “ that’s a figure.” 

“ No, to write letters in ‘ cypher ’ means to write 
them so that no one who does not understand the ‘ code ’ 
can make out what they are about. You can’t read 
writing, so I’ll tell you about it. If Milly wants to ask 
me to wait a minute after school for her she just writes 
‘ American history,’ and I understand. If I can’t wait 
I write back ‘ X,’ and if I can wait I write ‘ O.’ We 
have little books called ‘ codes,’ and we keep thinking 
up ‘ cyphers ’ for things and tell each other, and then 
we all three write it down in our ‘ codes.’ It’s wonder- 
ful. Nobody could understand what we write to each 
other.” 

‘‘ No, indeed ! ” agreed Sophronia admiringly. ‘‘ I 
reckon it’s hard work for you-uns — you, I mean — to un- 
derstand it.” 


93 


Sophronia' s Party 

“We can always look in our ‘ codes,’ ” said Marjorie. 

Before the “ party ” began Cora spread an old sheet 
on the center of Marjorie’s room. “ Then you won’t 
need to look out for scraps,” she explained, “ and when 
you get through I can gather up the sheet and there’ll 
be no bits of paper on your floor.” 

The girls all thought this was an excellent plan, and 
when Cora brought in flve white aprons, which she ad- 
vised the girls to tie about their necks, they felt ready 
to begin at once. Cora also furnished them with 
scissors, knives and five little gray bowls filled with 
smooth flour paste, and soft pieces of old white cotton 
cloth with which to paiste the pictures on to the card- 
board. 

“ Milly’s aunt is going to bring her in,” said Marjorie, 
as the three girls stood in the big library window wait- 
ing for their guests, “ but Sukey Jones said she could 
run over from Pinckney Street in a minute but she sup- 
posed one of the grown-up cousins would think that 
they must come with her, and come after her.” 

“ I reckon you say ‘ Milly ’ and ‘ Sukey ’ because they 
are ‘ cypher ’ words, don’t you, Marjorie ? ” asked So- 
phronia. 

Before Marjorie could answer, Billings opened the 
library door and a tall, slender girl came into the room. 
She was so tall that at first Sophronia and Ann both 
thought she must be much older than Marjorie, but 
Millicent was really a year younger. Her eyes Avere 
very blue, and her hair very light. 


94 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Why, she does look just like a ‘ Millicent,’ ” So- 
phronia whispered to Ann ; a remark which the younger 
girl received with a sniff. She thought Marjorie and 
Sophronia were very silly to talk about girls looking 
like names. “ I reckon they couldn’t tell what an 
‘ Ann ’ ought to look like,” she thought with satisfaction 
in possessing such a name. 

Sarah Jones was only a moment behind Millicent, and 
after the little visitors had admired “ E^ero,” “ Beauty ” 
and “ Pickwick,” Marjorie led the way up-stairs. 

‘‘ My, this is a big house, isn’t it ? It’s funny to have 
three parrots in one house, and three girls, too. Which 
talk the most, girls or parrots ? My cousins say I am 
worse than a parrot. I don’t know what they mean,” 
chattered Sarah as they went up the stairs. 

“ I reckon on account of talking,” Sophronia ex- 
plained. 

“ I reckon so too,” agreed Sarah cheerfully, “ but if 
they talked more I shouldn’t talk so much. But I 
think people ought to talk, don’t you, Double-M. ? ” and 
she turned toward Marjorie. 

“ Of course,” agreed Marjorie. 

Before the afternoon was over Sophronia felt very 
glad that Marjorie had told her about the “ cypher 
code,” for the three schoolmates at times carried on a 
conversation which no one but themselves could under- 
stand. 

“ Sophronia thought of these picture puzzles,” Mar- 
jorie explained to her guests. 


Sophronia's Party 95 

After the pictures were pasted on the cardboard the 
girls found it would take some time for them to dry 
properly, before they could be marked or cut. 

“ Well just spread them out on my table and leave 
them until next Saturday,’’ suggested Marjorie, “ then 
you girls come again and we will do the marking and 
cutting.” Millicent and Sarah thought this an excel- 
lent plan. 

“ Ann has a tame pigeon,” Sophronia announced as 
the girls unfastened the long white aprons. 

“ I feed it on the window-sill every morning and every 
night,” Ann explained, “ and Sophronia has named him 
‘ Eobinson Crusoe.’ ” 

Sarah was eager to see a tame pigeon, and the girls 
all went into Ann’s room. 

“ See the little trees ! ” exclaimed Sarah. “ My ! I’d 
like to have something like that in my window to 
watch.” 

Marjorie told her how the acorns had been put in the 
jars, and also about the moth cocoons she had brought 
from Farmer Wyman’s. 

Ann had taken a little tin box from a drawer in her 
bureau, and was now breaking up a cracker. She 
opened one of the windows and put the bits on the 
sill. 

“ It’s early, but perhaps E. C. will come,” said Ann. 
The other girls laughed at the abbreviation, and So- 
phronia regarded her sister proudly. Ann could talk in 
“ cypher,” too, she thought. 


96 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ There he is. Oh, isn’t he a beauty ! ” whispered 
Sarah, as a pigeon, of soft gray plumage with per- 
fectly white wings, came floating down to the window- 
sill. It turned its pretty head from side to side, picked 
up the bits of cracker and fluttered away. 

“ I wish I could feed a pigeon,” said Sarah Brown, 
“ but if I did my cousins wouldn’t like it.” 

“ How do you know they wouldn’t ? ” asked Ann. 

“ Oh, I know. They never like to have me do any- 
thing unless they tell me to,” said Sarah. 

“ I guess relatives are all like that,” said Millicent. 
“ My aunt says girls shouldn’t speak unless they are 
spoken to, when older people are present.” 

“My!” exclaimed Sarah. “I’m glad my cousins 
haven’t found that out. They say I’m worse than a 
parrot, but I don’t mind that.” 

Cora rapped on the door and said smilingly : “ Miss 
Marjorie, tea is served in the dining-room.” 

“ Ain’t that grand ! ” Sarah whispered to Ann ; 
“ sounds just like grown-ups. I guess my mother will 
be pleased when I write her about to-day.” 

“Here,” said Ann, handing her a little package, 
“here are some crackers. You just take them home 
and crumb them up on your window-sill, and I reckon 
you can have a tame pigeon, too. Fve lived with rela- 
tives, and I know just how horrid it is.” Ann had not 
forgotten Uncle Besum ; she was quite sure that Mil- 
licent and Sarah were to be pitied, and wished she 
could do something to make them more happy. 


CHAPTEK X 


EESCUma “ ROBINSON CRUSOE” 

Ann watched for the white-winged pigeon each 
morning, running to the window as soon as she was out 
of bed to put out bits of cake, apple, or the cracked 
wheat Cora had given her. If “Robinson Crusoe” 
happened to be late to breakfast Ann would lean out 
of the window and look along the roofs of the neigh- 
boring houses hoping to discover him. Generally, how- 
ever, “ Robinson ” or “ R. C.,” as the girls now called 
him, arrived in good season, and his flutterings and 
chirpings were the first sounds the little girls heard on 
waking. 

“ I wonder where ‘ R. C.’ stays at night *? ” Ann would 
say every morning, and at night she would watch the 
bird as it floated off across the housetops. 

“ ‘ R. C.’ knows me. I’m right sure he does,” she 
would declare, as the pigeon turned its head toward 
her. And when, after several weeks, it really took a 
bit of cake from her hand, Ann was happier than she 
had been since the proud day when she had been fitted 
for glasses. 

She told Marjorie of the wonderful happening, and 
Marjorie and Sophronia were as eager to see this proof 
of the pigeon’s tameness as even Ann herself could wish. 

97 


98 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ It’s getting so cold now at night I’m afraid ‘ R. C.’ 
will freeze,” Ann said one afternoon, as she put out the 
usual rations for the bird. “ I reckon Mrs. Melchin 
wouldn’t like it if I took him in nights.” 

Marjorie shook her head. “ Ho,” she agreed, “ I’m 
sure she wouldn’t like it.” 

“ I don’t see why not. ‘ R. C.’ is just as pretty as 
the parrots. Prettier, I think.” 

“ He can’t talk,” Marjorie reminded her. 

“ I’m right glad of it,” declared Ann. ‘‘ Suppose he 
came screaming out, ‘ Crackers, breakfast-time ! ’ at me 
every morning. I shouldn’t care anything about him. 
I understand ‘ R. C.’s ’ way of talking, and it’s a good 
deal softer and more pleasant than parrot’s talk.” 

It was a cold day in early December as the girls stood 
in Ann’s room watching “ R. C.” take his evening meal. ‘ 
As he finished he came close up to the window, snug- 
gled his head down into his feathers, apparently decid- 
ing that he would stay near his friends. 

“ I do believe he is going to stay here ! ” exclaimed 
Ann; “and it’s snowing.” A little flurry of white 
flakes filled the air, and settled on the broad window- 
shelf. “ Oh, dear ! ” Ann’s voice sounded as if she 
were very near to tears. 

“ Wait a minute,” exclaimed Marjorie. “ I’ll be right 
back,” and she ran out of the room. 

“ Do you reckon she’s gone to ask Mrs. Melchin to 
let us take ‘ R. C.’ in ? ” questioned Ann hopefully. 

“ Maybe,” responded Sophronia ; “ anyway she has 


Rescuing “ Robinson Crusoe ” 99 

thought of something to help. Marjorie always has 
beautiful thoughts.” 

The pigeon looked like a ball of feathers, huddled 
up in the snow, that was now falling thick and fast. 

Marjorie’s steps were heard in the hall, and in a mo- 
ment she was in the room holding out a small square 
wooden box. “ Look ! ” she exclaimed. “ Billings got 
this for me. It will make a splendid house for ‘ E. C.’ 
We can put it out on the window-sill — and he will go 
right in and be nice and dry.” 

“ It won’t stay on the window-sill,” said Ann. 
“ Hear the wind. It would blow that box off in a 
minute.” 

“ I believe it would,” agreed Marjorie. “ What can 
we do ? ” 

“ I know. Give me the box,” and Sophronia took 
“ K. C.’s ” “ lodging house ” from Marjorie. “ Give me 
some cracked wheat, Ann,”^she demanded, and Ann 
brought the bag in which “ R. C.’s ” provisions were 
kept. 

Sophronia turned the box on one side, covered the 
lower side with the grain, and then held it out to Ann. 
“ ‘ R. C.’ is more used to you,” she said. “You raise 
the window and talk to him the way you always do ; 
let the window down so it will hold the box and ‘ R. 
C.’ will walk into it after the grain.” 

Marjorie and Ann both looked at Sophronia admir- 
ingly, and Ann promptly obeyed. At the sound of her 
voice “ R. C.’s ” head came up and he walked smartly 


oo 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

into the box, and, after eating the grain, settled him- 
self in the far corner of the box, with little chirpings 
and coos, that Ann declared were his thanks for 
shelter. 

The next morning Billings came up and nailed the 
box securely to the window-sill. The opening was 
toward Ann’s window, so that “ B. C.” had to walk 
around the box, and enter on the open side facing the 
house. It did not take him very long to discover the 
way, and after that every night the pigeon came to its 
snug shelter. 

Millicent Trevelyan and Sarah Jones were now 
frequent visitors at Mrs. Melchin’s, and Sophronia’s 
picture puzzles were given to “ the Six,” greatly to 
their delight. Marjorie had written to Betty Savory 
and Adrienne Wilson about the “ cypher code ” and 
they immediately became members of the “ Code 
Club,” sending letters to Marjorie, that she spent much 
time in translating. Ada also became a member, and 
the code book was rapidly growing into a bulky volume. 

Marjorie’s friendliness toward the girls in her class at 
school soon won her a place among them, and before 
Christmas time “ Miss Ohio,” “ Miss Texas ” and “ Miss 
South Carolina,” as the three little strangers were af- 
fectionately called, were feeling quite at home with 
their Boston schoolmates, and were all included in many 
pleasant gatherings. 

The class in American history in Miss Kent’s school 
had many pleasant excursions, as their teacher took 


Rescuing Robinson Crusoe'' loi 

them to see many of the places where historic events 
had occurred. They visited the Old North Church, in 
whose tower hung the signal light for which Paul 
Kevere had watched “ on the 19 th of April in be- 
fore starting on his ride to Concord and Lexington to 
warn the country folk to be up and to arm to defend 
their liberty. The Old South Church, used by the 
British officers for a riding-school, and King’s Chapel, 
where distinguished men had preached and worshiped 
for nearly three centuries. Sophronia and Ann were 
included in some of these excursions and listened with 
wonder-filled eyes to Miss Kent’s interesting stories of 
the days when Massachusetts was an English colony, 
and when colonial governors, and British officers in 
red coats and cocked hats walked on Beacon Street. 

Marjorie’s letters to her mother and father told them 
of these interesting things, and Miss Wing read them 
aloud to the girls in her school. Mr. Philips kept the 
letters very carefully, saying that when Marjorie was 
really grown up she would like to read them. 

‘‘ I wonder where ‘ E. C.’ is ? ” Ann asked one morn- 
ing a few days after the box had been put out. “ I 
haven’t heard him, and he isn’t in his box.” 

“ Oh, he’s just taking a fly before breakfast, the way 
people take a walk,” replied Marjorie, who had stopped 
at Ann’s door, to remind her that the breakfast bell had 
rung. Sophronia had gone down-stairs. ‘‘ He’ll come 
back,” added Marjorie starting toward the stairway. 

But Ann did not follow her ; she opened the window 


102 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

and crawled out on the window-ledge. “ I was sure I 
heard him,” she said aloud, looking along the roof for 
some trace of her pet. 

There was a wide ledge on which the windows 
opened ; below this the roof sloped gently to another 
narrower coping which formed a gutter to carry off 
rain. As Ann crouched on the window-ledge she 
heard a complaining chirp toward the left, and as she 
looked along the roof in that direction she saw “ E. C.” 

“ What is he doing ! ” she exclaimed, for the bird 
would flutter up a foot or two from the upper ledge and 
then drop back suddenly. Ann called to him. And he 
started up quickly with a plaintive note, but immediately 
dropped back. 

“ Oh, what is the matter ? ” called Ann, and wished, 
for the first time, that her pet could talk. “ K. C.” was 
evidently frightened, and as Ann crept a little further 
along the ledge she discovered that in some way he 
was fastened by a string to the window-ledge. “ He’ll 
break his leg if he keeps on pulling that way,” thought 
Ann, creeping a little further toward the bird, “ and if 
he can’t get loose he’ll starve,” and at the thought of 
such things befalling “ K. C.” she crept on, not realizing 
her own danger or the fact that any slip on her part 
would send her hurtling down the roof and off into 
space. “ If I can only see where the string is fastened,” 
thought the little girl, as she worked her way rapidly 
toward the corner. At her approach the bird fluttered 
even more desperately, and Ann could see that the 



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Rescuing Robinson Crusoe" 103 

string was caught under the edge of the cornice. She 
spoke softly to the pigeon, and at her repeated gentle 
calls he gradually became less frantic and at last flut- 
tered on to her outstretched hand. Ann now kept very 
still. She was stretched at nearly her full length along 
the ledge. Holding the bird in both hands she dared 
not sit up, and in that position it was nearly impossible 
to disentangle him from the snarl of string in which his 
foot was held. There was, fortunately, no wind, and the 
morning sun lay warm upon the roof ; but the December 
air was sharp, and in a little while Ann’s feet began to 
ache with the cold and little shivers crept over her. 

Sophronia ran up to their room to call her sister to 
breakfast, and returned to the dining-room to announce 
that Ann was not in her room. “ She isn’t in the 
library either,” she said anxiously. 

“ She wouldn’t go out on the street, would she ? ” 
questioned Mrs. Melchin. 

“ Oh, no ! ” Sophronia answered. “ You told us never 
to go out alone,” and Mrs. Melchin smiled at Sophronia’s 
reply, as the little girl evidently considered that it 
would not be possible to disobey such a decision. 

“ Perhaps Ann is in my room,” suggested Marjorie. 

I’ll run up and see,” and she started up the stairs. 

Just then Billings appeared at the dining-room door *, 
he looked very much alarmed. 

“ If you please, Mrs. Melchin, there’s a policeman at 
the front door, and he says there’s a little girl on our 
roof.” 


104 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ What ? ” exclaimed the horrified old lady. 

“ A little girl, if you please,” repeated Billings. 

“ The policeman says we must get her off,” continued 
Billings, ‘‘ and that it must be done careful. If she 
starts to stand up or to turn round she’ll tumble into 
the street, he says ; and if she stays there long this 
cold morning she’ll freeze, he says,” and Billings waited 
respectfully. 

“ Tell him to do something quick,” commanded Mrs. 
Melchin ; “if I live till spring it will be a miracle. 
Oh, dear, oh, dear ! ” 

Sophronia had not waited to hear the end of Bill- 
ings’ story. As she reached the door of her room Mar- 
jorie stood there. “ Ann’s on the roof,” Marjorie whis- 
pered. “We mustn’t frighten her, but we must get 
her in.” 

“ I’ll get her,” Sophronia replied. “ Ann will do 
what I tell her,” and she went toward the open window 
and leaned out. “ Ann, you just get yourself back into 
this room,” she called. “ You needn’t be skeered ; just 
let go of that bird and creep backward till you get here 
and I’ll pull you in.” 

“ I ain’t goin’ to let go of him,” announced Ann, 
“ leastways not ’til I get his foot clear of this string. 
I reckon I’ll manage it.” 

“ You’d better,” commanded Sophronia, watching 
her sister fearfully. “ Ain’t you most froze ? ” 

Ann made no answer ; she was resting her elbows on 
the ledge and slowly working her pet out of the 


Rescuing Robinson Crusoe" 105 

snaxl of string. Sophronia heard heavy feet on the 
stairway. “Keep all those folks quiet,” she com- 
manded Marjorie, drawing her head in from the win- 
dow. “ Don’t you let one of them speak. I’ll get 
her,” and Marjorie ran to obey. She felt sure that 
Sophronia would succeed. 

Sophronia returned to the window just in time to 
watch “ R. C.” flutter out of Ann’s hands, a free bird 
once more. 

“ Come on back,” commanded Sophronia. 

“ Reckon I can’t,” replied Ann weakly. 

“ Andromeda Cutts, you wriggle yourself right back 
to this window or I’ll tell Mrs. Melchin to march you 
straight back to Uncle Besum.” 

Ann made a backward movement immediately. 

“ And you keep yourself close to this ’ere roof,” So- 
phronia went on sternly. “ I reckon Uncle Besum ’ll 
tend to you right smart if he gets a hold on you.” 

The backward wriggle became more rapid. Ann evi- 
dently had lost all fear of the narrow shelf as compared 
to the possible terrors of a return to Uncle Besum. 

“ You’d better come along right smart,” kept on So- 
phronia, and as Ann’s feet and legs came past the win- 
dow she called out : 

“ You can pull yourself in, I reckon.” 

Sophronia drew back into the room, and turned 
around to face Marjorie, Billings, Cora, and a tall police- 
man. “ Go out this minute,” she commanded. “ You’ll 
skeer her so she’ll fall backward.” 


io6 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

There was an immediate flight, and as the door 
swung to behind them Ann’s head appeared at the win- 
dow, followed rapidly by the rest of her small person. 

“ Shut that window right down this minute,” ordered 
Sophronia, “ getting Mrs. Melchin’s house cold as Uncle 
Besum’s cabin. You ought to have some sense, but 
you ain’t ! ” she concluded scornfully ; “ not the least 
bit.” 

Ann began to cry. That Sophronia should appar- 
ently turn against her was more than could be borne. 
She threw herself on her bed sobbing bitterly, and in a 
second her sister was beside her holding her tightly. 

“ I had to jaw you, honey, ’deed I did,” she explained. 
‘‘ I was that skeered you’d go failin’ off and off and 

OFF.” 

It was a half hour before the sisters came shyly into 
the dining-room. There was a cup of steaming hot 
milk for Ann, her toast was crisp and warm, and Cora 
heaped marmalade upon her plate. No one spoke to 
her of “Kobinson Crusoe” or of the roof, and Ann 
made an excellent breakfast and ran away to the li- 
brary. 

“ She’ll never do it again,” Sophronia assured Mrs. 
Melchin. “ I reckon I skeered Ann worse than she did 
us.” 

“ I hope you did. You are a good girl, Sophronia, 
and a smart girl,” Mrs. Melchin responded, and at this 
unexpected praise Sophronia glowed with happiness. 


CHAPTER XI 


OHEISTMAS 

“ Well, Marjorie, what are we going to do about 
Christmas ? ” Mrs. Melchin asked one morning when 
Marjorie came into the library. It was just a week 
before Christmas day. Marjorie’s school had closed 
for the holiday vacation; but Mrs. Melchin had de- 
cided that it was best for Sophronia and Ann to con- 
tinue their lessons until Christmas day. 

“ Do you mean for Sophronia and Ann ? ” responded 
Marjorie. “ I don’t suppose they know what ‘ Christ- 
mas ’ means, and I’m sure they never had Christmas 
gifts or saw a Christmas tree.” 

“ Then I think our Christmas will be a very pleasant 
one,” said Mrs. Melchin ; “ but we must try to be sure 
that Sophronia and Ann understand about Christmas, — 
what it really is and means.” 

Marjorie nodded, for she realized what her good 
friend meant, as her own thought of Christmas was a 
very beautiful one. The story of the star in the east, 
and of “ the exceeding great joy ” with which the wise 
men had welcomed it, had been told to Marjorie on 
every Christmas eve since she was a very small girl. 

“ I think, Marjorie,” continued Mrs. Melchin, “ that 
Sophronia and Ann will like to hear why there is a day 
107 


io8 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

set apart by all civilized nations as a day of rejoicing, a 
day of loving-kindness. Your grandmother used to 
tell the story to her children on every Christmas eve.” 

“ And mother always has told it to me,” said Mar- 
jorie. “I think I won’t wait until Christmas eve to 
tell them about it. You see, everybody is talking 
‘ Christmas,’ and it is just as well to tell them now.” 

“ Perhaps it is better,” agreed Mrs. Melchin, “ and 
to-morrow you and I will make our plans to give So- 
phronia and Ann a happy time that they will always 
like to remember.” 

Mrs. Melchin’s suggestion came at just the right mo- 
ment, for Marjorie’s thoughts were with all the dear 
people in her Southern home, and the realizing that So- 
phronia and Ann had no happy thoughts of Christmas, 
and that it was possible for her to do a great deal for 
them, gave her a new interest and happiness. 

All that morning Marjorie busied herself with books 
in the library. From one she copied a beautiful verse 
about Christmas, from another a single line. She se- 
lected Dickens’ “ Christmas Carol ” to read aloud, and 
asked Sophronia and Ann to come up to her room in 
the afternoon. . 

Is it a surprise ? ” questioned Ann hopefully. 

“ I’m going to read to you,” answered Marjorie. 

There had been a heavy fall of snow on the previous 
night, and the Common glistened under its white cover. 
Every branch and twig of the tall trees were edged 
with ermine, and boys and girls were out with sleds 


Christmas 


109 


coasting down the historic paths, carefully avoided by 
smiling pedestrians, many of whom turned to watch the 
swift descent of the delighted youngsters. 

Marjorie stood at her window looking out. “ It’s 
pretty ! ” she thought. “ It is different from the lovely 
long hiUs and green woods in Ashley, and of course it 
isn’t like the plantation, but I am beginning to like it.” 

She turned at the sound of Ann’s tap on her door, 
and a moment later the three girls were gathered 
around Marjorie’s table. She had brought up a book 
of colored photographs of Jerusalem, and as Ann and 
Sophronia looked over these Marjorie told them, as her 
mother had first told her, the story of the first Christ- 
mas eve. “ And now people keep Christmas day as a 
day of loving-kindness toward everybody,” she con- 
cluded. 

“And to make presents,” added Sophronia. Mar- 
jorie noticed that both her friends were very sober, but 
not until Christmas day did she realize that both Ann 
and Sophronia had passed a very unhappy time because 
they wanted to give her a Christmas gift, and had not 
then thought how it would be possible. 

Marjorie had nearly finished reading “The Christ- 
mas Carol,” when a smart knock on the door made her 
pause, and in response to her “ Come in ! ” the door 
swung open and Cora appeared in the doorway. 

“ Mrs. Melchin sent you up a little refreshment,” said 
the smiling girl, setting down the pretty tray in front 
of Marjorie. 


1 lO 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ It’s lovely ! ” declared Marjorie, and Ann and So- 
phronia were both smiling with pleasure. “ Tell her 
we are ever so much obliged,” continued Marjorie, “ and 
thank you, too, Cora.” 

On the tray were three dainty china cups filled with 
cocoa. On the top of each was whipped cream, white 
and foamy. There was a plate of tiny heart-shaped 
cakes with white frosting, and a silver dish filled with 
candies. 

“ It’s really the beginning of the good times Christ- 
mas brings,” declared Marjorie, as she helped herself 
to a cake. 

“ I wonder where Uncle Besum is,” said Sophronia, 
as she sipped the delicious chocolate. “ I reckon he’s 
having a terrible miserable time some wheres.” 

Sophronia’s voice was so serious that both the other 
girls looked at her in astonishment, and there was a 
trace of alarm in Ann’s expression until after her sister’s 
next remark. 

“ I reckon we shan’t ever know,” and at this Ann 
sighed with relief. It seemed to Ann that one of the 
blessings of life would be never to hear a word about 
Uncle Besum. 

The next day Mrs. Melchin and Marjorie talked over 
their plans for Christmas. 

“ I think we will all go out Christmas eve and follow 
the ‘ waits,’ and see the Christmas candles,” said Mrs. 
Melchin ; “ the ‘ waits,’ you know,” she added, without 
waiting for Marjorie’s question, “ are little groups of 


Christmas 


111 


people who go about the streets singing Christmas 
carols. Sometimes the choir boys from the Church of 
the Advent sing before the houses of those who have 
been ill and shut in ; and there are older singers, men 
and women. Here at the West End rows of lighted 
candles are set in many windows, and people follow the 
singers about the streets.” 

Marjorie was sure this would be delightful, and Ann 
and Sophronia listened in amazement, and were eager 
for Christmas eve to come. 

“ We’ll have the tree lit directly before dinner,” Mrs. 
Melchin told Marjorie. “ I hoped that Mr. Field and 
Luke would be with us, but they are going to Ashley 
to stay that week with Farmer Wyman.” 

“ They’ll have a lovely time,” said Marjorie a little 
wistfully, remembering the big lions of snow which 
Luke and Ferdinand had made on a winter’s visit to 
the farm. 

“ And we shall have a lovely time, too,” responded 
Mrs. Melchin. “ I have just happened to think that 
Sophronia and Ann haven’t had a penny to spend since 
they came North. I am ashamed to have been so care- 
less ; but they were so surprised when I gave them each 
a dollar this morning, and told them that after this 
they could expect the same amount on the first day of 
every month, that perhaps they haven’t wanted any 
money.” 

“ I don’t believe they have,” Marjorie responded 
earnestly. “ I know I haven’t spent a penny of what 


112 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

father sent me until I began to get ready for Christ- 
mas.” 

Sophronia and Ann considered a dollar a large amount, 
and the two sisters were sure they could buy many 
wonderful things with it. 

“ There are shops, with beautiful things to sell, on 
that street the other side of the Common,” said So- 
phronia. “ Cora goes over there sometimes to do er- 
rands for Mrs. Melchin, and I’m going to ask her to let 
me go along, and then I’ll buy presents ! Presents ! ” 
repeated Sophronia, as if she found joy in the sound of 
the word. 

“ And I’ll go, too,” declared Ann. 

‘‘ I reckon it’ll be better for us to go separate,” said 
Sophronia. 

“ Maybe,” agreed Ann. 

There was a pleasant air of mystery about the big 
house during the week before Christmas, and Marjorie 
was sure that she was the busiest girl in the city. The 
gifts for the dear home people, for Ada and Farmer 
Wyman, for “ the Six,” as well as for Sophronia and 
Ann, gave her a good deal to do and kept her happily 
busy. She was helping Ann make a laundry bag of 
wonderfully figured cretonne, as a gift for Mrs. Melchin ; 
as Ann stitched slowly and carefully Sophronia worked 
steadily upon a linen case to hold handkerchiefs. 

Cora had consented for Sophronia to go shopping 
with her on one day, and Ann the next, and both the 
little girls felt as if the riches of the world were spread 


Christmas 


i'3 

Ijefore them. Neither of the sisters had ever been in a 
store before, and Sophronia, who Cora took first, and 
who had believed that almost anything could be bought 
for one dollar, came home to tell Ann strange things 
of the wonderful things that could be bought. 

“ I reckoned to buy a diamond ring for Marjorie, and 
a watch for you, Ann,” she began, “ and I told Cora, 
and the way she laughed ! It seems those things cost 
a sight, and Cora said that no matter how many dollars 
I had that Marjorie wouldn’t want a diamond ring, and 
that Mrs. Melchin wouldn’t let her wear one if she had 
two dozen.” 

“ What did you buy ? ” questioned Ann. 

Sophronia shook her head. “Wait till Christmas. 
Nobody must know what people buy,” she answered, 
“ but don’t you start out to buy anything like diamonds, 
’cause one dollar won’t pay for them.” 

“ I’m going to ask Marjorie before I buy things,” de- 
clared Ann ; and it was Marjorie who advised the pur- 
chase of the cretonne for the laundry bag, and gave So- 
phronia the linen to make Mrs. Melchin a handkerchief- 
case. 

“ I shan’t spend much more than a dollar,” Marjorie 
told the girls. “ You see mother is going to send me a 
big box of holly, and I am going to give sprays of that 
to Milly and Sukey with boxes of candy. I’m going to 
make the candy. Mrs. Melchin said I might go down 
in the kitchen to-morrow and make all the candy I 
want ; don’t you girls want to help ? ” 


114 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Yes, indeed ! ” they both answered. 

“And I shall give Ada and Farmer Wyman and 
each of ‘ the Six ’ just the same,” went on Marjorie. 

“ I’d reckon those wouldn’t be your presents then,” 
said Sophronia, “ or only about half yours, and the rest 
Mrs. Melchin’s.” 

“ That’s just what I said, Sophronia, when Mrs. 
Melchin told me that I could have all the sugar and 
nuts and things I wanted for candy ; and we talked it 
over, so her present to me is to be all the things I need 
for candy, and that makes it all right.” 

Sophronia agreed that no fault could be found with 
that arrangement, and Marjorie went on. “ Adrienne, 
Betty and the other girls at Aunt Maria’s school won’t 
want candy and holly, of course, so I am going to send 
each one of them a Christmas candle, to burn on Christ- 
mas eve. Mrs. Melchin knows where I can get a dozen 
for twenty-five cents ; that will leave me seventy-five 
cents for postage and other things. You see, I always 
work a handkerchief for my mother and one for Aunt 
Maria and for my father.” 

“We shall know better what to do next year, I 
reckon,” said Sophronia. 

Marjorie had learned to make candy during her stay 
in Ashley, and had carefully written down her Aunt 
Maria’s recipe for creamed walnuts, and molasses car- 
amels. Ada Streeter had taught her how to make 
chocolate fudge and cream peppermints, and Marjorie 
felt sure that her friends would all appreciate her candy. 


Christmas 


i‘5 

Mrs. Melchin told her that she would find boxes for her 
candy in the storeroom ; and when the little girls saw 
the pretty round boxes, covered with red and white 
glazed paper, they all exclaimed with delight. 

This is part of Christmas, too, isn’t it ? ” said Ann, 
as she cracked the nuts for Marjorie’s candy. So- 
phronia was being taught how to make fudge, and was 
carefully following Marjorie’s directions. 

“ You must each start a recipe book,” Marjorie an- 
nounced. “ My grandmother did when she was a little 
girl only ten years old, and my mother and aunt each 
have one, and this is mine,” and Marjorie held up a lit- 
tle square book in which her candy recipes were neatly 
written. 

“We must leave the kitchen just as nice as we found 
it,” Marjorie said, when the big platters were covered 
with rows of the candy they had made. So every dish 
was carefully washed, pans and spoons scrubbed, and 
nut shells brushed up and burned, and a dish of candy 
left for the cook with Marjorie’s thanks for the use of 
the kitchen. 

“ ’Tis a lady she is,” the gaunt Scotch woman, who 
had been cook for Mrs. Melchin for a long time, de- 
clared as she looked about the neat kitchen, and then 
looked at the candy and read Marjorie’s message. 

The day before Christmas it snowed ; but at sunset 
the sky cleared, the snow ceased, and dusk found the 
city sparkling over its beautiful robe of white. The 
stars came out clear and bright ; there was no wind. 


ii6 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

and all the world seemed to be ready for the greatest 
day of the year. 

As Mrs. Melchin and the three girls entered the 
dining-room for the evening meal, there was a chorus 
of exclamations. There were no lights in the room ex- 
cepting in the far corner, where a tree glowed with red, 
white, yellow and blue; tiny electric bulbs hanging 
from every branch, and on the top of the tree a big 
yellow star. How many things that held ! The girls 
were sure there had never been such a wonderful Christ- 
mas tree before. Sophronia and Ann were as happy as 
any two girls in all the world, and as Mrs. Melchin 
looked at them Marjorie heard her whisper, “ The best 
of dividends. The very best ! ” 

“We will put on high overshoes to-night,” said Mrs. 
Melchin, as they finished dinner, “ and we will start out 
as soon as you are ready.” 

Mrs. Melchin and Ann led the way, and Sophronia 
and Marjorie followed. Groups of people were making 
their way through the narrow side streets, and already 
the glimmer of candles could be seen in many win- 
dows. 

“ Look ! Look ! ” exclaimed Ann, and at the corner 
of Chestnut Street the little group came to a standstill. 

“It’s just like fairy-land,” whispered Marjorie to 
Sophronia. 

“ I reckon it is,” responded her companion. 

The freshly fallen snow reflected the gleams from 
the many candle-lit windows, and the dark outlines of 


Christmas 


H7 


the tall trees. Down the street came a party of sing- 
ers, carrying bright Japanese lanterns fastened to long 
poles. They stopped very near to where the girls 
stood, and in a moment the voices rose in the clear air : 

“ In December ring 

Every day the chimes ; 

Loud the gleemen sing, 

In the streets their merry rhymes. 

Shepherds at the grange, 

Where the Babe was born, 

Sang, with many a change, 

Christmas carols until morn.’^ 

They were all in a quiet mood as they made their way 
home. Marjorie was thinking that next year she would 
be in her own dear home, and resolved that she would 
do all she could this year to help Sophronia and Ann. 
The sisters were both thinking what a beautiful world 
it was, how good and kind people were. “ I reckon 
Christmas made folks good,” Sophronia said to Ann, as 
they went into their pleasant chamber. “ Mrs. Melchin 
says that the star was to remind people that loving- 
kindness was a Christmas gift.” 

Mrs. Melchin was thinking of many things, but 
through all her thoughts was growing a resolve in re- 
gard to the two little sisters, who had come from a 
miserable existence into the comfort and delight of 
friendliness and love. 


ii8 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ It wiU mean something in life besides parrots,” she 
said aloud, greatly to the surprise of Cora, who was un- 
fastening her overshoes. For Mrs. Melchin was nearly 
resolved to adopt Ann and Sophronia. 


CHAPTER XII 


A VISIT 

“ Why, yes, Miss Ann, there’s no reason why you 
shouldn’t have a branch of the tree if you want it,” re- 
phed Billings, when Ann asked him, on Christmas 
morning, what was to be done with the pretty spruce 
tree which had borne such beautiful gifts the previous 
night. Billings had replied that the tree would be car- 
ried away by the ashman, and then Ann had ventured 
to ask for a branch. Billings carefully cut off one of 
the larger branches and handed it to the little girl, and 
she ran off up-stairs with it. 

Billings smiled as he watched her. “ ’Tis a pleasant 
thing to have young people in the house,” he thought, 
and wondered to himself how long these girls would 
stay. 

Sophronia was with Mrs. Melchin and Marjorie in the 
library when Ann carried the green bough up-stairs. 
She opened her chamber window and leaned out, look- 
ing for ‘‘ R. C.,” but, fortimately for her plan, he was 
not to be seen. 

Ann pushed the bough in between the small wooden 
box and the window. It stood upright “ just like a lit- 
tle tree,” she exclaimed happily, as she looked at it ad- 
miringly. Then she opened the lower drawer of her 

119 


120 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

bureau and drew out a muslin bag filled with pop-corn. 
Taking out a handful she stuck them over the branch 
wherever they would stay, and then left a little heap of 
them on the top of the box. One of Ann’s gifts was a 
box of candy, and from this she now selected a large 
pink bonbon, a round, soft chocolate, and a yellow jelly- 
like square, which she found no trouble to attach to the 
spruce twigs. Beside this she spread a handful of nuts, 
cut into tiny bits, a handful of the cracked wheat, and 
an apple cut in small pieces along the window-sill. 

“ Now I should think that ‘ K. C.’ would have a 
party and invite his friends,” thought Ann, as she softly 
closed the window. 

Every morning the pigeon flew away, sometimes not 
returning until night, but this morning as Ann stood 
looking out over the housetops she saw “ R. C.,” ac- 
companied by two other birds, fluttering down on the 
edge of the roof of the next house, and a moment later 
all three were on her window-sill. There was a flut- 
tering of wings, a chirping inquiry, followed by appre- 
ciative notes as all three began on “ R. C.’s ” feast. 
“ It’s exactly as if he expected a Christmas tree,” thought 
Ann, as “ R. C.” pecked at the pink bonbon, and settled 
himself comfortably on the top of the box. 

The two visitors evidently appreciated their fare, and 
while they were eating half a dozen little brown spar- 
rows came along and helped themselves greedily. 

Ann watched them with delight. “ I do wish So- 
phronia and Marjorie could see,” she thought, and at 


A Visit 


21 


that moment heard her sister’s voice saying, “What 
are you looking at, Ann ? ” 

Ann held up a warning finger. “ Ssshh ! ” she cau- 
tioned, and Sophronia and Marjorie tiptoed to her side 
and looked out. 

The three little girls exchanged smiles. “It was 
lovely of you to think of it,” Marjorie whispered, slip- 
ping her arm across Ann’s shoulder. 

In a few moments the visiting pigeons joined “K. 
C.” on top of the box, and the girls went across the 
hall to Marjorie’s room. 

“ You gave me exactly what I wanted, Sophronia,” 
said Marjorie, as she took up a pretty red box which 
held six lead-pencils, of different colors, each one 
sharpened and ready for use. 

“ My box is just like it,” said Ann. 

“ And the laundry bag is just the thing, Ann,” con- 
tinued Marjorie, for that had been Ann’s gift to her 
friend. Marjorie had given them each a neat brown 
leather purse ; while Mrs. Melchin’s gift to each one of 
her little guests was a pretty fur collar and muff of 
gray chinchilla. Marjorie’s collar and muff was lined 
with delicate pink silk, Sophronia’s was lined with 
gray, and Ann’s with blue; otherways they were 
exactly alike. 

“Mrs. Melchin said for us to put on our hats and 
coats and be ready to go out at ten o’clock,” said 
Sophronia. 

“ Shall we wear our furs ? ” questioned Ann. 


122 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Of course, and we had better get ready this 
minute ; it is ten minutes of ten,” said Marjorie. 

Mrs. Melchin was waiting for them in the hall. She 
was warmly dressed, and a big basket stood on the 
floor beside her. 

‘‘ Kobody is to ask a question, remember,” she said 
smilingly, as they went out, Billings carrying the big 
basket to the waiting automobile. 

In a moment they were whirling past the State 
House, with its gilded dome, down between tall build- 
ings, crossing Tremont Street, and twisting and turn- 
ing through narrow streets until the car stopped before 
the big railway station. 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Marjorie, who recognized the place 
at once, and turned a radiant face toward Mrs. Melchin. 

“Ho guesses allowed ! ” declared Mrs. Melchin. But 
Marjorie was smiling happily. A red-capped porter 
took prompt possession of the big basket, and they all 
walked down the long platform to a waiting train. 
Marjorie fairly skipped along. “ We’re going to Ash- 
ley,” she whispered to Sophronia, and Sophronia smiled 
because she knew that her friend was happy ; but the 
little mill girl was quite sure that Beacon Street was 
as beautiful a place as any one could hope to find. 

“ It’s lovely,” Marjorie said to Mrs. Melchin, when 
the train had started. 

“ There’ll be some lovely surprise at Ashley,” Mar- 
jorie assured Sophronia and Ann ; “ there always is. I 
can’t think what it will be.” 


A Visit 


123 


When the train stopped at the pretty station of Ash- 
ley Marjorie looked out eagerly. “ There’s Luke ! ” 
she exclaimed, “ and Ferdinand Webb ; and oh ! there’s 
Ada ! ” 

Evidently Mrs. Melohin’s party had been expected, 
for Farmer Wyman’s big sleigh, with the strong, well- 
matched pair of horses, was drawn up near the plat- 
form, and Farmer Wyman himself was holding the 
reins. 

There were many “ Merry Christmases ” to be said as 
the newcomers were tucked warmly into the sleigh. 
Marjorie and Ada were beside Farmer Wyman and 
could hardly talk fast enough to tell each other all 
they had to say. Mrs. Melchin with Sophronia and 
Ann had the middle seat, while the boys shared, with 
the basket, the back seat. 

What a wonderful ride it was that Christmas morn- 
ing for that sleighful of happy people ! Down the 
village street exchanging merry greetings with neigh- 
bors and friends. The sparkling, sunlit air ; the white 
fields stretching away to the black trunks of apple 
orchards, and distant wood-covered hills. Then into 
the road where snow-laden firs and spruce rose on each 
side like sentinels. Then up the long hill to the 
farm. 

Mrs. Meek, Mr. Field and Mr. and Mrs. Streeter and 
Alexander were all there to welcome them. Two black 
kittens frisked wildly about the pleasant living-room as 
if trying to say how glad they were to have company. 


124 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

It was not long before Ann had made friends with 
them in the big winged-chair near the open fire. Luke 
and Ferdinand had gone with Alexander to unharness 
the horses, and Mrs. Melchin and Mrs. Meek were 
unpacking the big basket, out of which many wonder- 
ful things appeared. There was a big flat box for Ada 
containing a set of furs, — chinchilla, of course, exactly 
like Marjorie’s, only the linings were of scarlet silk j 
and Mrs. Meek declared that she had never expected to 
have such a present, not in this world at any rate, 
when she opened the little leather box and took out a 
gold pin set with pearls. 

“ It doesn’t bring you a bit more pleasure than this 
lovely shawl brings me,” responded Mrs. Melchin, 
holding up the white fleecy wool shawl which Mrs. 
Meek had knit for her. 

There was a five dollar gold piece for each of the 
boys, who were almost speechless with gratitude. 

Then came the Christmas dinner, a wonderful roast 
goose, jelly-like apple sauce ; how good it all tasted, 
and how dainty bits were selected for each one. So- 
phronia looked about the table, and wondered why all 
these people were so good to Ann and to her; and 
with the thought she remembered the Great Gift, 
made on this day, to all the world. “ Loving-kindness, 
one to another,” she repeated to herself. “I reckon 
that’s the reason. It’s doing the way they’d be done 
by. It sure is.” 

After dinner the boys and girls went out to coast 


A Visit 


125 


down the long hill on the double-runner that Ferdi- 
nand and Luke had made the winter before. At Mrs. 
Meek’s suggestion the girls left their muffs at home 
and wore the warm white mittens that the good 
woman had knitted for each of them. 

“Just think, Sophronia and Ann have never slid 
down-hill in all their lives ! ” said Ada as they all took 
their places on the long sled, with Ferdinand for steers- 
man. Down the hill they flew, over the “ thank-you- 
ma’ams,” across the roadway and down the pasture 
slope. 

“ Now for the walk back,” exclaimed Ada, turning 
to Ann. 

“ I ain’t goin’ to slide again,” answered Ann, a little 
tremble in her voice, and clinging to her sister’s arm. 
“ I felt as if I was going straight off into nowhere. I 
sure did ! ” 

“We don’t want you to be frightened, Ann,” Luke 
said in his friendly way ; “ the rest of us want to slide. 
What do you want to do ? ” 

“ Can I do just what I want to ? ” Ann asked. 

“ On Christmas day ! Well, I should say you could,” 
answered Luke. 

“ I’d like to go back to the house, where it’s warm, 
and play with those nice kittens,” answered the little 

girl. 

“ That’s all right. Eun along,” said Luke, and Ann 
lost no time in recovering the safety and warmth of the 
sitting-room, from the sunny windows of which she 


126 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

watched the coasters, standing with both the kittens in 
her arms, and looking admiringly at the courageous 
deeds of her friends. 

It was nearly dusk when Farmer Wyman left his 
guests at the railway station, and drove back to the 
farm. 

“What do you think of Christmas, Ann?” asked 
Mrs. Melchin, as they all gathered about the tea table 
that night. 

“ Beau-ti-ful,” responded Ann, who had just taken a 
bite of a hot muffin covered with honey, and could not, 
therefore, speak as quickly as usual. 

Mrs. Melchin patted Marjorie’s hand that rested on 
the table. “All your doing, my dear girl,” she said nod- 
ding toward the happy faces of Sophronia and Ann. 

Marjorie smiled back at her good friend. She thought 
to herself how glad she was that Betty Savory had told 
her about little girls who worked in cotton mills, and 
in whom more fortunate people did not seem to be in- 
terested. “ I’m glad we found Sophronia and Ann,” 
she thought ; “ maybe it was all planned out that we 
should find them.” 

The girls were all sleepy at an earlier hour than 
usual, and Mrs. Melchin was quite ready to say good- 
night. 

When Ann peered out of her window to be sure that 
“ E.. C.” was safe at home in his box she exclaimed in 
surprise. “K. C.” was there, and close beside him 
nestled two other pigeons. 


“ His company are staying all night,” she said to 
Sophronia, with a happy little giggle. 

“Maybe he’s going to adopt them!” suggested 
Sophronia. 


CHAPTEB XIII 
sopheonia’s education 

It had become Marjorie’s custom, on her return from 
school each day, to walk with Sophronia and Ann. At 
first Cora or Billings had accompanied them, but, as 
the girls became more used to the streets, Mrs. Melchin 
permitted them to go alone. At first these walks led 
them only up the hill as far as the State House, and 
then directly home. On one occasion Cora went with 
them to see Sarah Brown on Pinckney Street, and Sarah 
and one of her cousins walked back with them, and 
after that Marjorie and her companions sometimes 
walked through Walnut to Mount Yernon Street and 
home again. 

Marjorie was studying American history, and often 
pointed out some of the places, the story of which she 
had learned, to Ann and Sophronia. They read the 
tablet marking the place on Beacon Street where the 
residence of John Hancock had stood, and told them 
the story of Governor Hancock once being fined for 
“ walking for pleasure on Sunday on the Common.” 

They had just come in from their afternoon walk one 
pleasant January afternoon and found Mrs. Melchin 
waiting for them in the library. 

128 


129 


Sophronia's Education 

“ Well ! Well ! ” “ Nero ’’ called out as they entered 
the room, a greeting which never failed to delight the 
three girls. 

“ And what remarkable thing did Marjorie have to 
tell you to-day ? ” Mrs. Melchin asked as Ann unfast- 
ened her fur collar and took olf her hat. 

“ She told us that the State House was finished in 
1Y98,” replied Ann. “Just think, it’s been there for 
over a hundred years.” 

“ Indeed it has,” agreed Mrs. Melchin, “ but the Old 
State House has been here a good many years longer 
than that.” 

“ That’s where Marjorie went with her teacher,” said 
Sophronia ; “ she told us about that. It has a carved 
lion and a crown, because it was built by the British.” 

“ The important thing about the Old State House, I 
think, is that on the 18th of July, 1776, the town clerk 
of Boston read from the balcony the Declaration of In- 
dependence to the multitude of people in the streets,” 
said Mrs. Melchin. 

The little girls looked rather puzzled, so Mrs. Melchin 
explained that the Declaration of Independence meant 
that by it the North American colonies separated them- 
selves from English rule forever. 

“ Our history teacher to-day told us a story about a 
little negro girl who was brought to Boston in 1761 
from Africa,” said Marjorie, as Cora came in to the 
room to take their coats and hats. “ Do you know 
about her, Cora ? ” 


130 Marjorie on Beacon Mill 

“ Yes, Miss Marjorie,” answered Cora, “ I do if her 
name was Phillis Wheatley, and if she wrote poetry.” 

“Yes,” said Marjorie eagerly, “ that is the very one.” 

Cora smiled and left the room. 

“ Well, Cora evidently knows more than I do about 
Boston’s history, /never heard of Phillis Wheatley,” 
said Mrs. Melchin. 

“ Is it true, or is it just another ‘ Kobinson Crusoe ’ ? ” 
questioned Sophronia. 

“ It’s true,” replied Marjorie. “ She was only seven 
years old when she was brought here in a ship and sold 
as a slave. A lady named Mrs. Wheatley bought her, 
and Phillis could not speak a word of English ; but 
Mrs. Wheatley taught her to read and write, and she 
studied Latin. She was so gentle and good that every- 
body liked her,” concluded Marjorie. 

“ And what about the poetry ? ” questioned Mrs. 
Melchin. 

“ Yes, she wote poetry, and Mrs. Wheatley took her 
to London. And when she was a woman the family 
gave her her freedom ! ” 

“Well, well!” declared “Nero,” and the girls all 
laughed delightedly, and Ann declared that sometimes 
she really wished “ E. C.” could talk, and told Mrs. 
Melchin that the two pigeons who came to the Christ- 
mas feast were still coming back each night to share 
“R C.’s” box. 

Ann had often gazed admiringly at the portrait of a 
lady which hung between the windows in Mrs. Melchin’s 


Sophronia s Education 131 

library. She and Sophronia had talked of it, and once^ 
to their great mystification, they had heard Mr. Field 
say that it was “ a Copley.” To-day, as Mrs. Melchin 
seemed more ready to talk with them than usual, Ann 
decided that she would ask what “ a Copley ” was. 

Mrs. Melchin smiled at the question, and in response 
pointed toward the portrait, but Ann’s puzzled look 
showed that the picture did not explain what she wished 
to know. 

“ That is the portrait of my great-grandmother, and 
it was painted by an American artist named Copley,” 
explained Mrs. Melchin. “ He was born in Boston in 
1737, and he was a poor little boy. His mother had a 
little shop on Bowdoin Square, and John Copley prob- 
ably used to come over to the Common to play, just as 
so many little boys do now.” 

The girls were now eagerly interested, and Mrs. 
Melchin went on. “He did not have a very good 
chance as a boy, and often said that he never saw a 
good picture until he was a man. But he taught him- 
self to draw and to paint by drawing and painting. 
When he was about seventeen he told his mother that 
he was an artist, and by the time he was twenty-three 
he had completed paintings which proved that he was 
right.” 

“ Then what did he do ? ” asked Marjorie. 

“ He bought a ‘ farm ’ over here on the hill,” replied 
Mrs. Melchin. “ His house faced Beacon Street, very 
near this house, and his land ran back to Mount Yernon 


132 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Street, and down to the river. He had beautiful gar- 
dens, and it came to be a matter of course for every 
one who could afford it to have his portrait painted by 
Copley.’’ 

“Was he a soldier, too?” asked Marjorie, whose 
mind was full of the brave deeds of the men of Ke volu- 
tionary days. 

“ Ho, my dear, he went abroad to study before the 
trouble began, and he never returned.” 

Marjorie thought a good deal about this artist, who 
had once owned a “ farm ” on Beacon Street, and 
even Sophronia began to think that history could be 
nearly as interesting as even Kobinson Crusoe’s ad- 
ventures. 

The winter days went very happily with the little 
household. With Marjorie’s help the two sisters were 
learning to sew neatly, and before spring came both 
Sophronia and Ann could write legibly. Sophronia 
persevered in her determination to learn “ dictionary 
words ” with excellent results, and Mrs. Melchin was 
pleased and gratified with their progress. 

Sophronia was the more thoughtful of the two, and 
she and Marjorie had many friendly talks when Mrs. 
Melchin had taken Ann, as she often did, to an after- 
noon concert, or on a visit to the Art Museum, or to 
Mr. Field’s studio. Ann’s music-teacher declared the 
girl possessed a natural gift for music, and Ann prac- 
ticed faithfully. Marjorie knew that Mrs. Melchin was 
making many plans for Ann’s future. 


»33 


Sophronia s Education 

“ But she never says a word about Sophronia,” Mar- 
jorie would say to herself, a little anxiously, for, unless 
Mrs. Melchin continued to befriend Sophronia, Marjorie 
feared that the little mill girl might again have to care 
for herself. She had this in mind when she urged So- 
phronia to learn to sew, and insisted that she set each 
stitch carefully and exactly. 

“I wish that you could learn to cook, Sophronia,” 
she said one afternoon as they walked together toward 
the State House. 

“ So do I,” agreed Sophronia promptly. If Marjorie 
had expressed the desire that Sophronia should attempt 
to fly she would have consented just as promptly. 

“ You see,” continued Marjorie, “ if a girl can sew 
nicely, and knows how to cook, it’s a great help.” 

“ Yes indeed,” answered her companion ; “ that’s 
just what Mrs. Field said when I was there that day. 
Charles Edward’s mother,” explained Sophronia. 

“ I remember,” said Marjorie, thoughtfully, recalling 
all that Sophronia had said in praise of the beautiful 
rooms over the grocery store, and of the attractions of 
Charles Edward. From that day a resolve shaped it- 
self in regard to Sophronia in Marjorie’s mind ; if, by 
some unlucky chance, Mrs. Melchin should not want 
both the sisters in her home Sophronia must learn all 
the things which would make her useful to Mrs. Field 
and Charles Edward and go and live with them. 

“ Do you remember where Charles Edward lives ? ” 
she asked. 


‘34 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ No,” answered Sophronia, “ I don’t remember, but 
Mrs. Field wrote it down on a paper and just what car 
to take to get there. Because I hoped some time I 
might go and see Charles Edward again.” 

“ Perhaps,” rejoined Marjorie soberly. 

Sophronia feared that her friend might think that she 
preferred Charles Edward to Mrs. Melchin’s home, and 
hastened to explain : “ I don’t think much about it. 
Of course, I don’t mean I’d like to stay with Mrs. 
Field. I’d rather stay with you and Ann and Mrs. 
Melchin than anywheres in all the world.” 

Marjorie smiled at her friend’s eagerness, and then 
sighed. The more she thought of it the more she was 
convinced that Mrs. Melchin’s interest in Ann meant 
that she liked Ann the best, and that it would not be 
long before she would decide that another home must 
be found for Sophronia. ‘‘And of course I must be 
ready to find it,” she decided, “ because I must always 
look after Sophronia.” 

It was the next day when Mrs. Melchin was sur- 
prised by a request from Marjorie for permission to ask 
Katie, the Scotch cook, to teach Sophronia how to cook. 

“ Does Sophronia want to learn to cook ? ” questioned 
Mrs. Melchin. 

“ Yes, indeed !” Marjorie assured her. 

“ Well, well, perhaps it may prove an excellent idea,” 
said Mrs. Melchin. “ I will talk with Katie and see 
what she says to it.” 

The result was that at the beginning of the follow- 


Sophronia s Education 135 

ing week it was decided that Sophronia was to assist 
Katie for two mornings every week. 

“ I’m glad it’s not I,” declared Ann, when Sophronia 
told her. 

“ You see, you have music lessons,” Sophronia ex- 
plained, fearing that her sister might consider that she, 
Sophronia, was being selected for special favors. 
“ And,” continued Sophronia, “ I want to learn all that 
I can about cooking, so when we grow up I can keep 
house for you.” 

Ann nodded approvingly. “I shall teach music,” 
she announced, “and I’ll earn a great deal. Maybe 
I’ll get a dollar for every lesson, so we’ll buy a house 
right near this one and you can keep house.” 

“ And we will have Mrs. Melchin come to dinner, and 
Marjorie will come and visit us,” responded Sophronia 
happily, “ and I can do our sewing, too.” 

Ann agreed to her sister’s plans, and Sophronia be- 
gan her lessons with Katie. 

Katie believed in thoroughness. “ Just have yer 
eye on me whilst I pare the potatoes,” she warned her 
pupil, and Sophronia watched her earnestly. “Now 
try one for yourself,” she commanded ; “ a thin skin, 
remember. A good cook wastes naught.” 

Sophronia had learned obedience in a hard school, 
and proved a docile pupil. She enjoyed Katie’s talk of 
her old home in Scotland, and Katie watched for the 
mornings that brought Sophronia to the kitchen. By 
March the little girl had learned many useful things. 


136 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

She knew just how many minutes a potato should boil, 
she could cream potatoes, make potato yeast, and po- 
tato starch, and bake excellent rye muffins and Scotch 
scones. At the beginning of April Mrs. Melchin de- 
cided that Sophronia had better discontinue her lessons 
in cooking for a time, as she wanted her to give all her 
mornings to her lessons. 

“ You can do a good many things real well now, 
Sophronia,” said Marjorie, on the day of Mrs. Melchin’s 
decision, and Sophronia admitted that she could. 

“ I feel as if I couldn’t be the girl who worked in the 
Columbia cotton mill,” said Sophronia. “Why, it’s 
only a year ago, Marjorie.” 

Sophronia certainly did not look like the pale, dull- 
eyed child who had been too tired to even care what 
might happen to her. She was taller, had gained in 
flesh. Her eyes were bright, her face round with the 
curves of health, and she was as straight and graceful 
as Marjorie herself. 

Mrs. Melchin, to Marjorie’s anxious eyes, seemed to 
be watching Sophronia closely. It was very evident 
that Ann was her favorite of the two sisters, and Mar- 
jorie feared that Mrs. Melchin was already deciding 
that a new home must be found for Sophronia. It was 
with this thought in mind that she one day asked So- 
phronia to let her see the paper Mrs. Field had given 
her. 

She read the written address over carefully for a 
number of times, until she was quite sure she would 


Sophronia' s Education 137 

r^ember it, and then handed the paper back to So- 
phronia. 

“ I must try to see Mrs. Field,” she resolved, “ so that 
if Mrs. Melchin decides that Sophronia can’t stay here I 
can take her to Cambridge.” 




CHAPTEE XIV 

PLANS FOR SOPHEONIA 

It was early in April when Marjorie received the 
letter from her mother saying that her Aunt Maria, 
Adrienne and Lucy Wilson would start for Ashley on 
the last day of the month. “ Then there will be only 
the summer before I can go home,” the little girl 
thought joyfully, counting off ‘‘May, June, July, 
August, September.” 

Marjorie and Sophronia were walking across the 
Public Gardens with Cora when Marjorie told them 
that it would be only a few weeks before her Aunt 
Maria would be back in Ashley. “ And I am to go 
and stay a month with her as soon as she comes,” she 
exclaimed enthusiastically, “ and I’ll have the best time 
in the world with Aunt Maria, Adrienne, Lucy and 
Ada. Just think of all they will have to tell me about 
mother and father ! ” 

“ A month ! ” repeated Sophronia in such a doleful 
tone that Marjorie looked at her questioningly. 

“I was thinking that I should not see you,” So- 
phronia explained, “ but I’m right glad you are going 
to see your aunt.” 


138 


Plans For Sophronia 139 

^You will be glad to see her, too, won’t you, So- 
plfr(?nia ? ” responded Marjorie. “ She always asks 
about you in every letter.” 

But Sophronia thought the loss of Marjorie’s com- 
pany for a month would not be made up by seeing Miss 
Maria. 

“ And you know, Sophronia,” went on Marjorie, “ it 
is lovely for me to have Aunt Maria in Ashley, because 
I shall be with her half the time until I go home in 
October.” 

“ Half the time until you go home in October ! ” 

The two girls were leaning on the rail of the bridge 
at the little lake. Cora was just beyond them talking 
with an acquaintance. As Sophronia repeated Mar- 
jorie’s words Marjorie turned toward her in surprise 
and saw that her friend was crying. 

Sophronia had not cried over her own hard lot in 
Columbia ; she had not cried when she saw Ann in 
danger, but at Marjorie’s joyful announcement that in 
a few months she would be going to her own home to 
stay, Sophronia had realized all this friend meant to 
her, and as Marjorie saw the tears she began to realize 
it also. 

“ Don’t cry, Sophronia ; don’t cry,” she whispered 
softly. 

“ I — I — have to,” responded Sophronia brokenly ; 
“ it’s right selfish of me, but you’ve been so good to 
me. I don’t know how I’m going to stand it not to see 
you.” 


140 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ But you knew I’d have to go home some time, So- 
phronia, dear,” said Marjorie. 

Sophronia wiped her eyes, nodded her head, and 
tried to smile. 

“ It’s right fine for you to have an aunt, and a mother 
and father,” she said bravely. “You see, Marjorie, 
Ann and I never had nothing ’til you took notice of us. 
We never had friends like you have, so I reckon I’ve 
sort of set everything by you,” and she smiled as if she 
had been asking forgiveness for some fault. 

“ Sophronia ! ” exclaimed Marjorie. “ I have a beau- 
tiful plan for you ! I’ve just thought of it, and I ought 
not tell you until Aunt Maria comes. And, Sophronia, 
I have been making plans about you all winter. And 
when I go home I shall think of you all the time, and, 
who knows ! Perhaps we can go to college together ! ” 

“ College ! ” Sophronia’s voice expressed all the sur- 
prise she felt. 

“Yes,” replied Marjorie. “You know that is one 
reason why my mother was willing for me to stay in 
Boston this winter ; for it is all settled that I am to go 
to college. I am studying as hard as I can.” 

“ But I shan’t ever know enough to go,” declared 
Sophronia. 

“You must know; you must study declared 

Marjorie. “ Your teacher told Mrs. Melchin that you 
learned very quickly. And see all you have learned in 
one year ! You have learned to read and write, you 
know a good deal of history and geography and arith- 


Plans For Sophronia 141 

metic. You must begin I^^atural History with me, and 
I don’t see why you can’t begin Latin Grammar.” 

Marjorie was enthusiastic over this new thought, and 
quite forgot her former plan for Sophronia to learn all 
about household duties, in order to go and live with 
Mrs. Field and care for Charles Edward. 

“But there’s Ann,” said Sophronia. “I couldn’t 
leave her.” 

“ That’s exactly what you said when I wanted you to 
run away from the cotton mill,” said Marjorie. “I 
believe you would have stayed with Uncle Besum rather 
than have deserted Ann.” 

“I have to think about Ann,” Sophronia replied 
soberly. 

“ Well, Sophronia, I think ” and then Marjorie 

hesitated. She had started to assure Sophronia that 
Mrs. Melchin would be quite sure to take care of Ann, 
and then realized that she knew nothing whatever of 
her good friend’s plans, so she finished her sentence by 
saying, “ Anyway, you study just as hard as you can, 
and we’ll see.” 

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Sophronia hopefully. Mar- 
jorie had never failed her yet, and when Marjorie ex- 
plained that “ college ” meant that they would see each 
other every day, Sophronia resolved to learn all she 
possibly could, in order to pass the examinations which 
would admit her to that wonderful place. 

“ It sounds like the orphan asylum you wanted me to 
go to,” she said admiringly. 


142 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Oh ! But I didn’t really know about asylums,” ex- 
plained Marjorie, and Sophronia asked no questions as 
to how much her friend knew of colleges. 

Miss Wing’s neighbor in Ashley, Mrs. Webb, Ferdi- 
nand’s mother, was to open the pleasant house and have 
it ready for her return, and it was decided that Mar- 
jorie should be there to welcome her ; and on the morn- 
ing of the day of her aunt’s return home Marjorie ar- 
rived at the house and, with Mrs. Webb’s and Ada’s as- 
sistance, put everything in order for its mistress. 

Miss Wing could not reach Ashley until late in the 
afternoon, and Marjorie resolved to have tea all ready 
for her. She felt very happy to be in the familiar 
house again, and sang as she went about her work. 

“Aunt Maria always has preserves,” she told Ada, 
who was spending the day with her, “ and Mrs. Webb 
has roasted a chicken, and I can cut it up. And I’ll 
bake potatoes and biscuit and make tea. I know that 
she will like to have supper at home.” 

“ Of course she wiU, and how proud she will be of 
you, Marjorie,” responded Ada admiringly. 

“Why?” 

“ Because you can do so many things,” answered her 
friend, “ and best of all because you think to do them 
at just the right time. And she will be proud of the 
way you look, too. You’ve grown tall this year, 
you know, Marjorie. You reaUy begin to look grown 
up.” 

“ That’s because my skirts are longer. Do you re- 


Plans For Sophronia 143 

member, Ada, the first year I was here in Ashley, and 
how much I wanted to look exactly like Aunt Maria ? ’’ 

“ And I helped you do your hair the way your aunt 
does hers, and dress up in one of her dresses,” said Ada, 
and both the girls laughed merrily over the time when 
Marjorie had prepared a surprise for her mother in 
making herself look as much like her Aunt Maria as 
possible. 

“ And you fell down the front steps when you ran to 
meet your mother, and Buff tore the dress. Oh, wasn’t 
it funny ? ” laughed Ada. 

“ I have a great mind to dress up to-day for Aunt 
Maria,” exclaimed Marjorie. 

“ That would be great ! ” Ada declared enthusias- 
tically ; “ and couldn’t I dress up, too ? ” 

“Of course you could. We won’t try to look like 
any one ; we’ll just dress up like old-fashioned ladies,” 
decided Marjorie. “ There are some of grandmother’s 
things up in the attic in trunks. Let’s go up and look 
at them.” 

“ And we’ll do our hair up,” added Ada, as they at 
once started for the attic. 

There was a black silk dress in one of the trunks. It 
had a very full skirt and many rows of narrow black 
velvet ribbon. There was a long cape of black lace, 
and some black mitts. 

“ You wear these, Ada. And I’ll introduce you to 
Aunt Maria as if you were company come to have tea,” 
said Marjorie. 


144 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

But Ada was looking at the black dress and lace cap 
rather thoughtfully. 

“ What is it ? ” questioned Marjorie. 

“ Perhaps,” Ada hesitated a moment and then went 
on, “ perhaps, Marjorie, we’d better not dress up in 
these. You see, they belonged to your Aunt Maria’s 
mother.” 

“ I see,” Marjorie responded soberly, and without 
another word the two girls carefully folded the dress 
and cape and put them back in the trunk, and went 
down-stairs. 

“ I’m so glad you thought of it, Ada,” Marjorie said 
as they reached the upper landing. 

“ I’ve thought of something else,” Ada declared ; 
“ let’s take some of those rolls of tissue-paper we saw in 
the attic and make us funny caps and aprons, and when 
your aunt gets here we’ll open the door and make very 
low bows, and walk backward and keep bowing until 
she is in the dining-room, and then wait on her just as 
if we were good fairies.” 

“ Can’t we make paper wings like fairies ? ” suggested 
Marjorie. 

“ Of course we can,” was the response, and in a mo- 
ment both the girls were back in the attic after the 
rolls of tissue-paper, and were soon busily at work. 

Ada decided upon white and crimson for her cap, 
wings and skirt, and Marjorie upon blue and yellow. 
As they pinned the paper, cut and fastened it into the 
desired shapes, Marjorie told Ada something of her 


Plans For Sophronia 145 

anxious plans for Sophronia. “ You see, it isn’t as if 
Mrs. Melchin had promised to keep both the girls,” 
Marjorie explained. 

“ But it costs a good deal to go to college,” suggested 
Ada. “ Don’t you suppose your Aunt Maria will know 
just what to do ? ” 

“ Of course she will ! Ada, I do think you are 
wonderful,” declared Marjorie. 

Long before the time when Miss Wing’s train could 
reach Ashley the two little girls had everything in 
readiness. The dining-room table was neatly set, the 
potatoes and biscuit ready for the oven, and Marjorie 
and Ada, with rather drooping wings of white and blue, 
and skirts of rustling tissue, were at one of the front 
windows looking down the street. 

Mr. Wilson, after leaving Adrienne and Lucy at their 
own home, drove Miss Wing to the house. She looked 
eagerly toward the front door. 

“ I really thought Marjorie would be at the station,” 
she said, “ and I expected to see that front door wide 
open.” 

Mr. Wilson was helping her from the carriage as she 
spoke, and as he watched her go up the narrow walk 
between the flower beds he saw the front door open, and 
two small figures bowing very low. He laughed to 
himself as he turned his horses’ head toward home. 
“ Some of their nonsense,” he said, with the happy 
thought that he would find his own little daughters in 
their own home after his lonely winter. 


146 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

But Marjorie quite forgot to “ walk backward bow- 
ing until reaching the dining-room,” and at the first 
sight of her aunt had run toward her and exclaimed, 
“ Oh, how glad I am I How good it is that you are 
here,” and, with an arm about each of the girls. Aunt 
Maria had entered her own sunny pleasant sitting-room. 
Ada slipped away to the kitchen to put the biscuit and 
potatoes in the oven, and Aunt Maria and Marjorie 
went up-stairs together talking happily. Miss Wing 
had just brushed her hair, changed her boots for com- 
fortable slippers, and washed her hands, when a shriek 
from the kitchen, a half -smothered cry of “ Help,” rang 
through the house. In a moment Marjorie, closely fol- 
lowed by her aunt, was running through the dining- 
room. As Marjorie opened the door into the kitchen 
her first thought was that Ada was crazy, for with one 
of the kitchen rugs wrapped about her the little girl 
was rolling on the floor. 

“ It’s ’most out ; it’s ’most out,” she said as Miss Wing 
ran to her assistance. My wings caught fire at the 
stove,” she explained, when the last spark had been 
carefully extinguished. “ I pulled them off as quickly 
as I could, but the tissue skirt had caught, so I just lay 
down and rolled the rug tight around me and screamed.” 

“You did the very best thing,” said Miss Wing; 
“your hair is badly singed, my dear girl, and I am 
afraid your own dress is ruined ; but those things are 
of little matter when we think of what might have 
happened.” 


Plans For Sophronia 147 

One of Ada’s hands was slightly blistered, but she 
did not complain. 

“Something always happens when we ‘dress up,’ 
doesn’t it, Marjorie ? ” she said with a little laugh, as 
Marjorie fastened a soft bandage about her hand. 


CHAPTEE XV 


A WEEK IN ASHLEY 

There were so many things for Marjorie to talk over 
with Aunt Maria, and Adrienne and Lucy had so much 
to tell her about Betty and Tryphosa, that the first few 
days of her Ashley visit slipped away very quickly and 
happily, and a week was gone before Marjorie realized 
that the time was near for her to return to Boston. 

“ I do wish I could stay here with you. Aunt Maria,” 
Marjorie said, when the telephone message came that 
on the following day Mrs. Melchin was coming, and 
hoped Marjorie would be ready to return with her. 

“ I don’t see that Mrs. Melchin needs me now,” went 
on Marjorie. “ Eeally, Sophronia has learned all I can 
teach her, and Ann is with Mrs. Melchin so much that 
she don’t need me at all.” 

“ You must not give up your own opportunity at 
school, my dear,” Aunt Maria reminded her. “ You are 
learning many things that you would not learn at home, 
and the term is nearly over.” 

“ It’s another month before school closes,” said Mar- 
jorie, “ and I’d just as soon keep on with school for that 
month if I could come straight here the very day it 
closed and stay all summer.” 

“ But, my dear, that is exactly what you are going to 
148 


>49 


A Week in Ashley 

do,” her aunt responded. “ Didn’t Mrs. Melchin tell 
you ? Your mother wrote her, and Mrs. Melchin sent 
back a glowing account of you, and said that Sophronia 
had learned more from being with you this winter than 
in any other way, and that you could come to Ashley 
when your school term ended.” 

“I am almost too glad,” exclaimed Marjorie in so 
serious a voice that her aunt looked at her question- 
ingly. 

“You see. Aunt Maria,” explained Marjorie, “ it’s 
just this way ; when I’m at home or here in Ashley I 
feel like a little girl, and I think about having good 
times, and all that. But when I am at Mrs. Melchin’s 
I think about Sophronia all the time, and wonder what 
I ought to do. You see, I’m Sophronia’s best friend.” 

“ I see,” responded Aunt Maria gravely. 

Then Marjorie told her aunt all her plans for So- 
phronia’s future, and her fears that Mrs. Melchin might 
not intend to keep Sophronia. 

It was a very anxious little face that Aunt Maria 
looked at so smilingly, as Marjorie finished. 

“ Cat’s foot ! ” said Aunt Maria. “ That is what your 
grandmother used to say to people who troubled them- 
selves over their own thoughts. Mrs. Melchin will 
never desert any child who needs a home or friend, 
Marjorie. And you can’t settle Sophronia’s life any 
more than you can your own. It comes a day at a 
time, dear child. Just do the right thing to-day, and 
to-morrow will be all right for Sophronia and for you.” 


1^0 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

The anxious look faded from Marjorie’s face, and she 
drew a long breath. “ It will be lovely to be with you, 
Aunt Maria. You see, I haven’t had anybody to talk 
things over with all winter.” 

“ I see,” and Aunt Maria’s voice was very kind. She 
realized that her little niece had taken a great deal of 
responsibility in trying to help the little girls from the 
cotton mill. “ Suppose you put on your hat and run 
down and ask Mrs. Wilson if Adrienne and Lucy mayn’t 
come home with you to tea, and on your way invite 
Ada,” she suggested. 

“ That will be lovely ! ” and Marjorie ran off to put 
on her hat and coat. As she opened the gate a big yel- 
low dog came bounding around the corner. 

“ Come on. Buff,” she called, and Buff barked his de- 
light as he trotted along beside her. 

As Aunt Maria watched the little figure going down 
the street, she said to herself that it was time for Mar- 
jorie to begin to play again. “ And I must think of 
something pleasant for tea,” she said aloud ; “ not only 
to eat, but something pleasant to do,” and she started 
toward the kitchen to begin preparations for supper. 

It was an hour later when Marjorie and her friends 
came gaily up the walk. Aunt Maria called out a wel- 
come to them from the dining-room, where she was set- 
ting the table. 

“ Let me help,” said Marjorie. 

“ Hot to-night, dear,” answered Aunt Maria. 

“ I think there’s going to be a surprise,” said Lucy 


A Week in Ashley 151 

Wilson. “ Miss Wing’s voice sounds just as it does in 
school when she has something to tell us.” 

“ Something smells good,” declared Adrienne, sniff- 
ing appreciatively, “ but I can’t tell what it is.” 

“ All ready,” called Miss Wing, opening the door 
into the pleasant dining-room, and Marjorie and Lucy 
led the way out. 

Miss Wing was just lifting the cover from a tureen of 
steaming clam stew. After that there was a delicious 
salad of fruit and nuts served on crisp lettuce leaves, 
with tiny round biscuit and spiced grapes. Then came 
the round frosted cakes and creamy chocolate ; but 
there was no sign of any surprise until supper was 
quite over. 

“ I thought I heard a noise on the front piazza,” said 
Ada. 

“ Very likely,” Miss Wing answered. “ I sent Ferdi- 
nand to do an errand for me, and he is probably bring- 
ing in what I sent him after. I^ow I want you girls to 
clear away supper, and wash the dishes for me, if you 
will. And please do not open the sitting-room door un- 
til I call you.” 

The girls all smiled, and readily promised. “ Now 
if you will excuse me, young ladies,” said Miss Wing, 
and her pupils all made the pretty curtsey which Try- 
phosa had taught them, and Miss Wing left the room, 
closing the door very carefully behind her. 

“ I can’t guess what it is,” said Marjorie, as she and 
Ada carefully removed the dishes. 


152 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Doesn’t it seem fine to be in Ashley ? ” said Adri- 
enne. “We shall have a splendid time this summer, if 
we are fifteen years old.” 

Lucy looked at her sister a little reproachfully. 
“You’ll have a good time too, honey,” Adrienne as- 
sured her. “ You’re past ten, you know.” 

The dishes were all neatly washed and set away, before 
Miss Wing opened the dining-room door. As the girls 
entered the sitting-room they at once noticed a queer 
arrangement in one corner of the room. It looked like 
a large cabinet, only it was covered with green cloth. 
Miss Wing asked the girls to be seated, and pointed to 
the comfortable sofa. 

As they sat down Luke Sanders came in from the 
front hall. He was smiling as if much pleased about 
something, and after greeting the girls, he disappeared 
behind the cabinet, where he could be heard whisper- 
ing directions. 

“ Ferdinand is behind there, too ; I know he is,” said 
Ada. 

It was very hard for the girls to sit still and not ask 
questions. 

“ Isn’t it exciting ! ” Adrienne whispered ; “ lovely 
things always happen when Marjorie comes.” 

In a moment Luke appeared in front of the cabinet, 
and made a very low bow. 

“ Young ladies,” he began with great dignity, “ I am 
about to present to you a company of distinguished 
actors who will give you the trial scene from the ‘ Mer- 


153 


A W^eek in Ashley 

chant of Venice.’ As they are not used to this climate, 
and do not speak the English language, Miss Wing has 
kindly consented to read their parts for them.” Luke 
again bowed and disappeared behind the curtain, and 
the girls applauded vigorously. Miss Wing took his 
place and began reading Shylock’s demand for his 
“ pound of flesh.” As she read two small curtains, one 
on each side, drew apart showing a tiny “ stage,” per- 
haps two feet square, in the center of the cabinet. The 
“ stage ” was set to resemble a court-room. The “ wise 
and upright judge ” occupied his seat, lawyers were in 
their places, “ Portia,” in her red gown and cap, stood 
just below the judge’s bench, and the bent figure of 
“ Shylock ” was in the foreground. 

There was a murmur of delight from the big sofa. 
And when Shylock walked across the stage, when 
Portia stepped forward and raised her arm, and when 
the judge bowed to her, the girls could no longer keep 
still ; they clapped their hands, and Marjorie called 
out, “ I know Luke made those funny little people.” 

“ Ferdinand helped,” came a voice from behind the 
cabinet. Then Luke and Ferdinand both came out, 
one on each side of the green curtain, and the girls 
went near enough to see the clever little marionettes 
which Luke had made and dressed. Their arms and 
legs were fastened to their bodies by linen tapes. And 
there were wires arranged, attached to the figures and 
running across the stage behind the curtains, which 
could be pulled so that the marionettes would walk, 


154 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

bow, or even dance if the person who controlled the 
wires wished to make them. 

“Mr. Field told us how to give a plaj,” Luke 
explained, as he carefully took down the curtains, and 
the slight framework which supported them. “The 
stage, you see,” he pointed out, “ is just any table that 
we can set in the framework. Then I stand one side 
and Ferdinand the other, where we can pull the 
wires.” 

“ I remembered about the marionettes just in time,” 
said Miss Wing. “Luke has had them up at Farmer 
Wyman’s, and brought them down to Ferdinand’s this 
morning.” 

“ It was a splendid surprise,” declared Ada, and the 
other girls echoed “ Splendid ! ” in a delighted chorus. 

“ And such a nice supper,” said little Lucy. 

“And I must go back to Boston,” Marjorie said 
dolefully, “and leave all Ashley’s good times for a 
month ! ” 

“ We’ll have a beautiful summer,” Adrienne declared, 
“ and we will be making plans all the month until you 
come.” 

“ Well, I’ve had a lovely time this week,” Marjorie 
admitted, with her usual happy smile. 

Luke had taken great satisfaction in making the 
little figures for his marionette show. He told Mar- 
jorie that he was at work on a pair of clog dancers, 
and that Mr. Field had given him a book on the 
history of marionettes and how to make them. 


A Week in Ashley 155 

“ Do you suppose Mrs. Melchin and Sophronia would 
like to see them some day at Mr. Field’s studio ? ” he 
had asked, and Marjorie had responded : 

“ Yes, indeed, and so would Ann, and my other 
friends. That is, if you want to ask them.” 

And then it had been agreed that on the first Satur- 
day after Marjorie’s return to Boston, if Mrs. Melchin 
and Mr. Field approved, Marjorie should invite “ Miss 
Texas ” and “ Miss Ohio,” and any other of her school- 
mates whom she might think would enjoy the marion- 
ettes, to Mr. Field’s studio. She also promised that she 
and Sophronia would come to the studio the day after 
her arrival home and help Luke make costumes for the 
little wooden figures. 

“ You see,” he explained, “ I can use these figures for 
almost any play if I only have the right things for 
them to wear. Mr. Field said I could have historical 
scenes, like George Washington and his generals arriv- 
ing in Cambridge ; or the schoolboys of Boston asking 
General Gage to protect their rights; about sliding 
down-hill, you know.” 

Mrs. Melchin was greatly interested when Marjorie 
told her of Luke’s marionettes, and said that So- 
phronia, Ann and Marjorie could go to the studio the 
next afternoon to help Luke with the costumes for his 
figures. She gave them a silken bag filled with bits of 
wonderful silks and embroideries, and a box of tiny 
bead buttons. Many of these were of gilt and silver, 
and Luke was very enthusiastic over them, declaring 


156 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

they would be just what he needed on the uniforms 
of army officers. 

Mr. Field had several books with colored illustrations 
of colonial costumes, and suggested that the girls use 
them for guides in their work. 

The studio was a very pleasant place even on an 
afternoon in May. From its big windows the girls 
could look out across the Charles Kiver and toward the 
distant Brookline hills. The room was filled with 
fragrance for, in a big blue bowl on the window-sill, 
pink arbutus, from the Ashley woods, sent out its 
delicate perfume. 

“IFs more fun than dressing dolls,” declared Mar- 
jorie, as she sewed tiny gilt buttons on the uniform 
intended for General Gage. 

“Yes, indeed,” agreed Sophronia, who was trying a 
skirt of royal purple on a “ colonial dame.” 

Ann was not sewing, but was very contented curled 
up in a big chair turning over the leaves of one of the 
illustrated books. 

The week went very quickly, and Marjorie’s school- 
mates decided that she was the most fortunate girl in 
the school to have such friends as Mr. Field and Luke 
Sanders. The principal of the school was greatly 
interested in the marionettes, and said that she con- 
sidered it an excellent way to teach history. 

“ Marjorie,” called Luke, as Mrs. Melchin and the 
girls were just leaving the studio after the entertain- 
ment, and Marjorie stepped back to speak to him. 



THE STUDIO WAS A PLEASANT PLACE 















4 


. 0 “' 



«. 


157 


A Week in Ashley 

“ What do you think ! ” he began eagerly. “ Miss 
Kent has engaged me to bring my marionettes to her 
school next W ednesday and give ‘ General Hancock’s 
Reception for the French Officers.’ She is going to 
pay me three dollars. And she told Mr. Field that she 
thought I could get other engagements at schools.” 

“ Of course you can. I am so glad, Luke,” replied 
Marjorie. 

The tall boy looked at her gratefully. 

“ Ho you remember teaching me to read ? ” he asked 
with a little laugh. “ I reckon you’ve done a good 
deal to help people along. There’s Sophronia and 
Ann, besides me, and I don’t know who else,” he 
concluded. 

“ I never helped a bit, Luke Sanders ! ” responded 
Marjorie. “ You did it all yourself.” 

“ Much obliged, just the same,” laughed the boy, and 
Marjorie ran down the steps and joined Mrs. Melchin. 

“ I feel proud of my South Carolina children,” that 
lady said, smiling at Ann, as the automobile carried 
them swiftly away toward home. 

But Sophronia’s eyes were resting gratefully on Mar- 
jorie, and she was thinking to herself that but for Mar- 
jorie’s friendship neither Luke, Ann nor herself would 
be entitled to Mrs. Melchin’s friendly approval. 


CHAPTER XVI 


IN THE PINE WOODS 

When Marjorie awoke the first morning after her 
arrival in Ashley, she looked about the little room with 
a smile. It was the same little room over the front 
door, in her Aunt Maria’s house, where she had slept 
four years ago on her first coming to Ashley. There 
were the same frilled muslin curtains, the faded carpet 
of blue and white, and the little white rocking-chair by 
the window. She wondered if the humming-birds still 
made their nest in the woodbine that clambered up the 
latticework. 

“ It’s lovely to be here,” she thought, and as she went 
down the narrow stairway to the kitchen she said to 
herself that this little house in Ashley was a much 
happier place to live than Mrs. Melchin’s tall brick 
house on Beacon Street. 

Aunt Maria’s kitchen seemed to smile a welcome as 
the little girl entered. The stove was as shining black 
as ever, the floor the same beautiful yellow, and the 
braided rugs lay just as they had when first she came 
into the pleasant kitchen. 

“ I’ll get breakfast, just as I used to,” thought Mar- 
jorie, and very soon the fire was burning briskly, and 
there was the fragrance of coffee in the air. The bread 
168 


In the Pine Woods 


159 


was cut ready for the toaster, and the water was bub- 
bling in anticipation of dropped eggs. Then Marjorie 
went through the little passageway to the dining-room 
and when Miss Wing came down-stairs breakfast was 
ready. 

“ It seems so good to help myself,” said Marjorie as 
she brought in the toast and eggs. 

“ Now I think it is very pleasant to be helped,” re- 
sponded her aunt. Before they had finished breakfast 
they saw Ada coming up the path, and Marjorie ran to 
open the door for her. 

“ You don’t look exactly like Ada this morning,” 
Marjorie exclaimed laughingly, resting her hands on 
Ada’s shoulders and looking at her friend. “ I’m not 
sure if I like your hair looped up or not,” for Ada’s 
smooth braid was now turned up and fastened with a 
broad black ribbon. 

“ You ought to like it ; you’ve done yours this way 
all winter,” responded Ada. 

“ I suppose we’ll get used to it,” said Marjorie, “ but 
you don’t look like a little girl, Ada.” 

“ I’m not a little girl,” said her friend laughingly. 
“ I am fifteen years old. My skirts are at the top of 
my boots now.” 

“ You talk as if it was your skirts that were growing 
instead of you.” 

“ That’s the way I feel,” laughed Ada. “ I hurried 
this morning, for Adrienne and I both forgot to tell 
you something important yesterday. We forgot to tell 


i6o Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

you that ‘ the Six ’ are coming to spend the day in the 
pine woods. They’ll be here on the next train.” 

“ Who comes with them ? ” asked Marjorie. 

“ Two mothers ; Felicita’s and Marie’s,” answered 
Ada. “ We have a fine luncheon for them, and they 
will all be so glad to see you, Marjorie. Lucy is great 
friends with Felicita. They’re just of an age and just 
of a size. Can’t you go to the station now with me to 
meet them?” 

“ I’ll ask Aunt Maria,” said Marjorie, and ran into 
the dining-room. 

“ Eun along, my dear,” said her aunt. “ I heard Ada 
plan for the day, and I will come up to the pines a little 
later on.” 

When the Boston train rolled in to the Ashley sta- 
tion Adrienne, Lucy, Ada and Marjorie were on the plat- 
form to welcome their visitors. The six little girls who 
came quietly down the car steps, and smilingly greeted 
their friends, did not look like the children whom Mar- 
jorie had met on that same platform four years ago 
when “ the Six ” came on their first visit to Ashley. 
These little girls were neatly dressed. (Ada, Adrienne, 
Lucy, and Marjorie were quick to recognize things of 
their own given to these girls.) They had suitable hats, 
their shoes were polished, and they seemed as happy as 
any children need be. 

Felicita’s dark-eyed little mother, too, had changed. 
Her eyes had a more hopeful expression, and she did 
not look overtired. She walked beside Marjorie as 


In the Pine Woods i6i 

the little party made their way along the village street 
toward the pine woods. 

The others were in advance of them, and Marjorie could 
see that her companion’s eyes rested proudly on Felicita. 

“ Felicita looks so much better — stronger, I mean — 
than she used to,” said Marjorie. 

“ Ye-es. Felicita always well, always pleasant,” re- 
sponded the little woman. “ She help me so mooch ! 
She sew nice on clothes, and she keeps the children 
nice. She told you about the leetle club, eh ? ” 

“ Club ? ” questioned Marjorie, thinking her compan- 
ion meant “ the Six.” 

“ I no mean ‘ the Seex.’ 'No, I mean the club they 
have made. They call it ‘ the teen,’ — tin, I mean. It 
is the leetle brothers and seesters club. Ye-es! These 
seex girls start it. But maybe I tell secrets,” and the 
little woman stopped suddenly. 

“ Do tell me some more,” exclaimed Marjorie ; “ it’s 
splendid. When did they begin ? ” 

‘‘ They just begin,” replied Felicita’s mother, “ but 
maybe ’tis secret. Maybe ’tis surprise for you ? ” 

“ Perhaps it is. I do want to hear about it, but I’ll 
wait,” said Marjorie, and Felicita’s mother smiled on 
her approvingly. 

“ I tell you thees : They help the teen to be good 
children. Ye-es! To keep themselves neat, and to 
spik respectful to people,” and Felicita’s mother nodded 
convincingly. 

It was not a long walk to the pine woods, and in a 


i 62 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

short time they were in the fragrant shade of the big 
trees. Hats were taken off, and Felicita and Lucy 
promptly removed their shoes and stockings. Some of 
the other girls followed their example, declaring that 
the pine spills felt as cool as water. 

Ada and Dottie had walked up from the station to- 
gether, and Marjorie noticed that Ada seemed in un- 
usually good spirits, and was not surprised when she 
whispered, “ I have something lovely to tell you, Mar- 
jorie. Come on for a little walk away from the others.” 
The two friends slipped away from their companions 
and walked down the slope among the beautiful trees, 
until they came to a moss-covered log where they could 
get a glimpse of the river. 

“ I wanted to tell you this morning, when I came 
over to your house,” Ada began, as they sat down on 
the log, “but I wasn’t sure until Dottie got here.” 
Ada stopped and smiled radiantly, quite as if Dottie’s 
coming had explained everything. 

“But what’s the ‘lovely thing’ you want to tell 
me ? ” questioned Marjorie. 

“ Why, Dottie ! ” answered Ada in a surprised voice. 

“ I suppose I’m right stupid,” said Marjorie, “ but I 
haven’t the least idea what you mean.” 

“ I’m so excited that I can’t talk plainly,” declared 
Ada, “ and of course you don’t know what I mean. 
But I’m sure you remember that, from the very first, 
Dottie has been my favorite among ‘ the Six ’ ? ” 

“ Yes,” agreed Marjorie, “ but I supposed that was 


In the Pine Woods 


163 

because she was even poorer than the others, and because 
her mother wasn’t quite as kind as the mothers of the 
other girls.” 

“I think I would have liked Dottie if she hadn’t 
been poor,” Ada answered seriously. “ I remember the 
very first day I saw her how pretty I thought she was. 
Her hair was just like gold, and ” 

But Marjorie interrupted. “ Ada ! You haven’t told 
me a single thing ! You just keep praising Dottie.” 

Ada looked a little surprised. ‘‘ Oh ! ” she began. 
“Well, I’ll, tell you now. You see, I’ve always liked 
Dottie, and I have talked a lot about her to father and 
mother ; about her father not having steady work, and 
Dottie’s mother being cross, and all that,” 

Marjorie had leaned back against the big tree, beneath 
which they were sitting, resolved to listen patiently. 
But she began to think that Ada’s news was not so very 
thrilling after all. 

“ And last week,” Ada continued, “ father gave his 
consent.” 

“ Consent to what f ” She began to think that Ada 
was really stupid. 

“ Why, to Dottie’s coming,” answered Ada in a sur- 
prised voice. 

“Ada Streeter!” exclaimed Marjorie, standing up 
and looking down into her friend’s face. “ Will you 
tell me what your father had to do with it, anyway ? 
Of course Dottie would come if the others did.” 

“ I don’t mean to-day,” said Ada. “ I mean that 


164 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

father said I might ask Dottie to come to our house and 
stay all summer ; and I wrote to her mother, and so 
Dottie isn’t going home with the others. She’s going 
home with me.” 

“ Oh, Ada ! ” Marjorie’s voice and manner expressed 
as much surprise and pleasure as even Ada could expect, 
and for a little while the two girls talked busily. Then 
Marjorie laughingly declared that she didn’t know but 
what the summer would be over before she could find 
out what Ada had wanted to tell her. 

“You see,” replied Ada, “my father is earning more 
money this year than he has ever earned — two hundred 
dollars more — so we can afford to do more pleasant 
things. Mother’s going to have a new dress.” 

When Ada and Marjorie walked back up the slope to 
join the others they found that Aunt Maria had ar- 
rived with a big covered basket, and Mrs. Streeter, 
with Dottie beside her, was telling stories to a number 
of the younger girls. 

Adrienne was unpacking the baskets and helping 
Miss Wing prepare the luncheon. 

She looked up and nodded to her two friends. “ Come 
on and help, you^ two,” she called out to them, and a 
moment later Ada was saying : 

“ Adrienne, Dottie is going to stay all summer at our 
house.” 

“ There ! ” laughed Marjorie. “ Why didn’t you tell 
me that way ? It took her half an hour to tell me,” 
she explained to Adrienne. 


In the Pine If^oods 


165 

Dottie looked as if she needed a summer in the 
country. There were dark circles under her blue eyes, 
and her little face looked thin and tired. 

“ There are lots of things I can do for her,” Ada ex- 
plained eagerly, “ and father is going to put up a tent 
in our back yard for Dottie and me to sleep in. You’ll 
like that, won’t you, Dottie ? ” 

Dottie shook her head vigorously, and a look of 
alarm crept over her face. She began to wish herself 
safe back in the tall tenement house, shut in by brick 
walls. But her fears soon vanished when Felicita’s 
mother nodded approvingly, and announced that she 
and her family slept on the roof every pleasant night, 
and that a tent would be far better. 

“ Adrienne, you accomplish more than both of these 
girls,” said Miss Wing, as luncheon was spread on a 
white cloth, and Adrienne, Ada and Marjorie waited 
upon the younger girls. 

Adrienne’s face flushed at her teacher’s praise. She 
had grown from a heedless, careless girl into a very 
thoughtful “ elder sister,” ready to take the small re^ 
sponsibilities that came her way ; and praise from Miss 
Wing made her very happy. 

After luncheon Felicita, Lucy, and Felicita’s mother 
wandered away among the beautiful pines, and Marie 
came up to Marjorie and said, “ Miss Marjorie, ‘ the 
Six ’ want to tell you about our club.” 

“ There, Ada ! That’s the way to begin to tell any- 
thing,” said Marjorie. “ Now, Marie, tell us all about 


i66 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

it,” and the little girl told briefly how ‘‘ the Six ” had 
remembered that they were now all “past ten years 
old,” “ as old as you were. Miss Marjorie, when you be- 
gan to help us,” she added ; and they had decided that 
they wanted to help. “First we thought that we 
would call it the ‘ Sisters’ Club,’ ” explained Marie, “ be- 
cause it’s our sisters, you know, but they wanted a num- 
ber.” 

“We mend their clothes,” piped up Dottie. 

“ And we take them to walk and give them treats, 
and tell them to be polite,” added Lotta. 

May added that they were going to plan surprises 
for the “ ten,” now that school was over. 

“ And, if you please,” said Marie, “ ‘ the Six ’ wanted 
me to say that now we were growing up so fast, being 
past ten, that perhaps you’d just as soon not give us so 
many good times, but give them to the ‘ ten.’ ” 

“ ‘ A thing of duty is a job forever,’ ” Adrienne whis- 
pered to Miss Wing. “ I can see us bringing up gener- 
ations from Willow Lane.” 

Marie was standing in front of Marjorie, watching 
her face anxiously. Marjorie reached out and took the 
little girl’s hand in her own and drew her near. 

“ Your club is splendid ! ” she declared, “ and we’ll 
help you, of course. But we can’t give you up ; ‘ the 
Six,’ I mean. Why, we don’t mean to ever give you 
up, do we, girls ? ” 

“ No, indeed,” Ada replied promptly, and Marie and 
Dottie smiled happily, while Lotta and May rushed 


In the Pine W oods 167 

away to find Felicita, that she might know how the 
great news had been received. 

When the time came for the visitors to go to the 
station, there were six boxes all ready for them. Each 
box contained a jar of apple jelly, a round loaf of cake 
and a dozen cookies, and had been made ready by kind 
friends in the village. Dottie sent her box to her 
mother and went happily home with Ada, stopping in 
the back yard to look admiringly at the tent which Mr. 
Streeter was putting up. 

Marjorie had been more quiet than usual that day. 
Ada’s wish to give Dottie a happy summer had made 
Marjorie wonder if Sophronia would have a good sum- 
mer. She remembered that, while Mrs. Melchin was 
always kind to Sophronia, she often took Ann away for 
an entire afternoon, leaving the elder sister alone. 

“ I thought I should forget all about Sophronia if I 
could only get to Ashley,” Marjorie owned to herself, 
“ and here I am thinking about her. Oh, dear ! ” She 
sat down on the porch steps, while Aunt Maria went 
in ; as she sat there she heard the telephone ring, and 
her aunt’s voice answer the call. A few moments later 
Miss Wing came out on the porch. 

“Marjorie,” she said, “Sophronia fell down-stairs 
this afternoon and broke her leg. Mrs. Melchin wants 
you to come in to-morrow morning.” 


CHAPTEK XYII 


A NEW MARJORIE 

‘‘ Oh, Aunt Maria, how could she ? ” 

“ She slipped on the stairs, my dear ; and, beside the 
broken leg, there are other injuries,” replied Miss Wing. 

Marjorie followed her aunt into the dining-room and 
sat down at the table, but she did not feel hungry. 

“ Poor Sophronia ! ” she said slowly. She was trying 
to make herself believe that the sense of unhappiness 
and disappointment which filled her heart was sorrow 
for Sophronia’s misfortune. 

“ Mrs. Melchin said that she hoped you could come 
in on the early train to-morrow morning,” said Miss 
Wing. 

“ What for ? ” asked Marjorie anxiously. “ Does she 
just want me to come in and see Sophronia, or does she 
want me to come in and stay ? Aunt Maria, you don’t 
suppose she wants me to stay, do you ? ” 

“ My dear girl, I am afraid that is just what she does 
want,” replied Aunt Maria. 

“ Oh, Aunt Maria ! How can I go and be shut up 
in that house all summer, and miss all the good times 
here ? Why, you said yourself that we should have the 
happiest summer we had ever had. And to-morrow we 
were all going up to the lake with Miss Gray ; and the 
168 


A New Marjorie 169 

next day Adrienne wanted me to come down and play 
tennis, and Saturday we were all going over to Farmer 
Wyman’s. I canH go to Boston,” and Marjorie hid her 
face on the table and began to cry. 

Miss Wing’s eyes rested tenderly on the bowed head. 
It was a great disappointment for her as well as for 
Marjorie, but she hardly knew what to say. 

“ Aunt Maria,” and Marjorie’s voice was broken and 
indistinct, “ do you want me to go to Boston to-mor- 
row *? ” 

“ No, my dear.” 

Marjorie sat up very straight, wiped her eyes, and a 
smile began to show itself around the corners of her 
mouth. “ Then I shan’t go ! ” she declared. 

“ You Imow, my dear girl, that I shall miss you very 
much. I meant that, when I answered you,” Miss Wing 
said. 

“ Then you think I ought to go ? ” and Marjorie’s 
voice sounded as if tears were very near. 

“ What do you think, Marjorie ? It is for you to de- 
cide. If you feel that it is too great a sacrifice to go 
in and amuse Sophronia during the days when she 
must keep perfectly quiet in bed, you need not go. It 
is something for you to decide for yourself.” 

“ Then I’m not going,” Marjorie answered quickly. 

“ Yery well. I will call up Mrs. Melchin and tell her 
so,” said Aunt Maria ; “ and now that is settled won’t 
you eat some supper ? Here is your favorite plum jelly ; 
the cream toast is a little cold, but it tastes good.” 


70 


Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Marjorie was helped to toast and jelly and a slice of 
cold ham. But they remained on her plate untasted. 
She nibbled a sugar cooky, and tried to fix her thoughts 
on the good times ahead of her. “ I should be silly to 
go off to-morrow,” she thought. 

As they left the table Marjorie began her usual work 
of helping her aunt with the tea things. Generally she 
had many things to talk about with Aunt Maria, but 
to-night she was silent. Her thoughts occupied all her 
attention, and she did not even notice that Aunt Maria 
also was more silent than usual. 

The last cup and saucer had been set away before 
Marjorie spoke. 

“ Ann can amuse Sophronia,” she said. 

“Yes, I am sure Ann will be ready to do all she 
can,” agreed her aunt pleasantly. 

“ And there is Cora,” added the little girl hopefully. 

“ Don’t worry about it, Marjorie. Mrs. Melchin will 
see that Sophronia is well taken care of. It is the week 
Mrs. Melchin intended going to Cohasset for the sum- 
mer, so she may send Sophronia to a hospital,” replied 
Aunt Maria ; “ I will ask her when I telephone.” 

Marjorie went out on the porch and Buff came run- 
ning toward her. She sat down on the top step and 
put her arm around his neck. As she sat there, feeling 
very unhappy, in spite of all the good times she ex- 
pected to enjoy, and wishing that she was in her own 
home and could tell her mother that, after all, the plan- 
tation was the happiest place in the world, her thoughts 


A New Marjorie 171 

were interrupted. “ Hullo ! ” she heard a voice ex- 
claim, and looking up saw Ferdinand Webb leaning on 
the fence. 

“ Hullo ! ” she responded, wishing that he would go 
into his own house. 

“ Say,” continued Ferdinand amiably, “ Farmer Wy- 
man’s been telling us that if it hadn’t been for you 
Luke Sanders might never have had the big chance he 
has with Mr. Field. And Luke says you taught him to 
read.” 

Marjorie nodded. She thought it was very silly for 
Ferdinand Webb to tell her that, but hoped that now 
he had told her he would go away. 

“ And Farmer Wyman says it was you who started 
the folks here to help poor city children,” Ferdinand 
continued amiably. “How did you happen to think 
of it ? ” 

“ Of what ? ” asked Marjorie dully. 

“ Why, of what I’ve been telling you ! Your helping 
everybody,” replied Ferdinand, climbing up and estab- 
lishing himself comfortably on the top rail of the fence. 
“ And I guess those little mill girls think you’re an an- 
gel, don’t they ? Getting them out of the mill, and 
finding them a good home and all?” And Ferdinand 
looked at Marjorie as if he expected some appreciation 
of his tribute. 

“Ho, they don’t think I’m an ‘angel,’ Ferdinand 
Webb ! And I’d thank you to get off my aunt’s fence, 
and not sit there making fun of me.” Marjorie pushed 


172 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

Buff away and jumped up as she spoke, and before Fer- 
dinand could really believe his ears she had rushed into 
the house, the heavy door closing behind her with a 
slam. 

The dog and the boy looked at each other, and 
Ferdinand slid down from his perch. “ Come on. Buff,” 
he said, and the big yellow dog trotted obediently 
toward him. Ferdinand held the gate open, and they 
walked off together. “ Wonder what made her mad ? ” 
questioned Ferdinand. “ Guess she’s so taken up with 
herself on account of having helped folks that she can’t 
be pleasant. Humph ! ” and the boy patted Buff’s head 
as if to assure him that he, Ferdinand, was to be 
trusted. 

Marjorie did not go into the sitting-room again, but 
went quietly up to her own room. She sat down in the 
little white rocking-chair near the window and looked 
out. It was early June, and the long twilight had not 
yet faded into dusk. The garden fragrance of blossom- 
ing honeysuckle and jasmine came into the little room, 
and she heard the rustle of a bird in the woodbine be- 
neath her window. Everything was very still and 
peaceful, and as Marjorie sat there, rebellious and un- 
happy, her thoughts suddenly centered about Sophronia. 
She remembered the first time that she had seen her, 
and then she recalled her own impatience with So- 
phronia in the early winter ; and how glad she had 
been to come to Ashley ; to leave Sophronia and Ann, 
and all sense of responsibility for them. And at last 


A New Marjorie 173 

Marjorie began to think of what had happened to the 
girl whom she had been so anxious to help. 

‘‘ Sophronia has broken her leg ! ” she said aloud ; 
“ and Aunt Maria said she would have to lie perfectly 
quiet in bed for weeks ! ” Marjorie drew a long breath. 
And then, as suddenly as she had rushed in from the 
piazza, she ran down-stairs. Aunt Maria ! Aunt 
Maria ! ” she called, and Aunt Maria appeared at the 
sitting-room door. 

“ I’m going to Boston on the first train,” Marjorie 
announced. 

“ But I have telephoned Mrs. Melchin not to expect 
you ! ” Miss Wing replied. 

Telephone her again, right away,” Marjorie said. 
‘‘ I want to go ; truly I do.” 

Miss Wing’s face had brightened as Marjorie spoke, 
and she went toward the hallway, where the telephone 
was. 

Marjorie followed her, and stood waiting. She was 
now as eager to return to Boston as she had been anx- 
ious, at supper time, to remain in Ashley. 

Don’t they answer ? ” she asked, as no response 
came after her aunt’s repeated calls. 

“IN'o,” said Miss Wing ; “ we will wait a little while, 
and call them again. The line is busy.” 

“ I am so horrid,” Marjorie declared, as her aunt’s 
arm rested gently about her shoulders, and they walked 
back toward the sitting-room. 

“ And I was just .thinking how proud your mother 


174 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

and father would be of their daughter, when they knew 
that you chose to go and stay with Sophronia. You 
know, my dear, that you need not go unless you really 
want to,” said Miss Wing. 

“ I want to. Aunt Maria. You don’t suppose this 
will make Mrs. Melchin tired of Sophronia, do you ? ” 

“ Of course not, Marjorie ! What makes you feel that 
Mrs. Melchin does not want Sophronia?” questioned 
Miss Wing. 

“ I don’t know ; just because I’ve been trying to 
shirk myself, I suppose,” answered Marjorie. “ I do 
hope we can let Mrs. Melchin know that I am coming 
before bedtime.” 

An hour later the message was sent, and Marjorie 
went to bed. Already she was making plans for So- 
phronia’s entertainment. “ I’ll help her study the dic- 
tionary, and I’ll read poetry to her, and find puzzles for 
her to guess, and do everything I can.” Marjorie went 
to sleep quite happily. She had begun to think that 
she was going to enjoy going back to Boston. 

There was no time the next morning for Marjorie to 
let her friends know of the change in her plans. Miss 
Wing was going to Boston with her, and as they fastened 
the front door behind them before starting for the 
station, Ferdinand came out from his own house. 

“ Ferdinand ! Ferdinand Webb ! ” Marjorie called 
and ran toward the fence. “ Ferdinand, will you do 
me a favor ? ” 

The boy nodded soberly. He was still wondering at 


A New Marjorie 175 

Marjorie’s unfairness toward Buff and himself on the 
previous evening. “ Buff never did a mean thing in his 
life, and he’s her own dog,” Ferdinand had thought re- 
sentfully, when Marjorie had pushed Buff from the top 
step, and now he really wondered what Marjorie was 
going to ask him to do. 

“ Catch me ever praising a girl again,” he had resolved 
to himself. 

Marjorie quickly told him the story of Sophronia’s 
accident, and that she was going to Boston. “ You see, 
I have to stay with Sophronia ; maybe I won’t come 
back to Ashley. Will you tell Miss Gray, and 
Adrienne and Ada ? And I’ll write them just as soon 
as I can.” 

Ferdinand nodded. 

“ And I know you’ll take care of Buff until Aunt 
Maria gets home.” 

Another nod from the boy. 

Suddenly Marjorie remembered that she had been 
angry at Ferdinand the night before, and “ for noth- 
ing,” she said to herself. 

She hesitated a moment. It seemed to her that, all at 
once, she was discovering a new Marjorie, and one she 
could not like very well. 

I’ll tell ’em. And I’ll look after Buff,” Ferdinand 
answered. 

“I didn't mean to be so horrid to you, or to Buff 
either,” Marjorie acknowledged ; “ but it was because I 
was so unhappy. I hated to go back to Boston.” 


176 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

There was a nod in response. 

“ Well, good-bye,” said Marjorie. 

“ Good-bye,” responded Ferdinand, and Marjorie 
turned away. Ferdinand despised her, she thought, 
and she said to herself that she didn’t blame him. 
She had nearly reached the gate where Aunt Maria 
was waiting when she heard him running after her. 

“ Say, Marjorie, I’m going to carry your bag to the 
station.” 

“ Thank you, Ferdinand.” It was Miss Wing who 
answered, but that did not matter. 

Marjorie had smiled, and Ferdinand said to himself : 
“ I guess she didn’t mean to hurt Buff,” and decided to 
forgive her. 


CHAPTEE XYin 


HELPING MARJORIE 

“ It’s a shame for Marjorie to have to go to Boston.” 
Adrienne and Ada were sitting under the big shady 
maple tree back of Adrienne’s house watching Lucy 
giving Dot her first lesson in tennis. Ferdinand had 
given them Marjorie’s message, and neither of the older 
girls cared about tennis that afternoon. They had been 
talking over Sophi’onia’s accident, and the disappoint- 
ment of not having Marjorie with them. 

“ Ferdinand said that Marjorie seemed to think she 
would not come back this summer,” Adrienne con- 
tinued ; “ and she is going home to South Carolina in 
October, and who knows when we shall see her again ? 
You know I’m going to boarding-school.” 

“Perhaps Marjorie won’t have to stay all summer,” 
Ada responded. “ Miss Wing will be sure to find some 
way so she will come back. Isn’t Lucy a dear to be so 
kind to Dot ? Look, Adrienne ! Dot is really getting 
some idea of what a tennis racket is for.” 

“ Never mind Dot. I want to talk about Marjorie,” 
persisted Adrienne. “ Marjorie is the one who always 
has the hard things to do. She has stayed in Boston all 
winter on account of those mill girls, because Mrs. 
Melchin wanted her to help teach them things, and 
177 


178 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

now, just when she could have a little fun, that clumsy 
girl tumbles down-stairs and Marjorie has to go right 
back.” 

“ I guess it’s pretty hard for Sophronia,” suggested 
Ada. But Adrienne’s sympathy was all with Marjorie. 

“We ought to do something she declared. 

“ I don’t see what we can do,” responded Ada. 
“ Mrs. Melchin doesn’t want us to come and stay with 
Sophronia.” 

“ Perhaps she does. I thought of a plan the minute 
Ferdinand told us that Mrs. Melchin wanted Marjorie 
to come in to amuse Sophronia. I don’t see why you 
and I shouldn’t take turns with Marjorie. I’d go in 
and stay a week and let Marjorie come out here, and 
then, when I got home, you could go in a week,” and 
Adrienne looked at her companion hopefully. But 
Ada’s face was very sober. 

“ It’s a lovely plan,” she answered slowly. 

“ Of course it is,” Adrienne agreed laughingly ; “ my 
plans always are. I’m sure my mother and father will 
let me go. Don’t you think that we’d better telephone 
Mrs. Melchin right away, so that she can tell Mar- 
jorie ? ” And Adrienne sprang up, eager to at once 
begin her arrangements to help Marjorie. 

“ You mustn’t telephone Mrs. Melchin yet,” said Ada, 
“ because we haven’t asked our mothers. Miss Wing is 
coming home this afternoon ; don’t you think, Adrienne, 
it will be better to wait and tell her of your plan, be- 
fore we do anything about it ? ” 


Helping Marjorie 179 

Two years earlier and Adrienne would have quickly 
resented any suggestion that interfered with her carry- 
ing out her own wishes. But several unhappy results 
of her own way had taught her to be willing to “ think 
again,” as she termed it, and, after a little hesitation, 
she agreed to Ada’s suggestion. 

On Miss Wing’s return Ada and Adrienne were at 
the station to meet her, and to hear all she could tell 
them of Sophronia and Marjorie. 

“ Poor Sophronia doesn’t want Marjorie to stay,” 
Miss Wing told them, “ and it will only be a few weeks 
before she can get about on crutches, the doctor says, 
and then Mrs. Melchin will go to Cohasset and Mar- 
jorie can come home to Ashley.” 

“Well, that isn’t so bad as all summer,” agreed 
Adrienne ; “ but Ada and I have a plan so Marjorie 
won’t have to stay in Boston even a few weeks.” 

“ But Marjorie wants to stay, my dear girls,” said 
Miss Wing. “ You see, it is rather hard for Mrs. Mel- 
chin to change all her plans just now, and stay in the 
city when she wishes to go to her country home. And 
she is doing it really on account of Marjorie’s interest 
in Sophronia. And poor Sophronia will have to keep 
very still, stay in her own room for a good many days, 
and Marjorie can do a great deal to make it easier for 
her. You see, my dear girls, that Marjorie is really 
Sophronia’s best friend ; and so she must do all she can 
for her, always.” 

“Yes, Miss Wing, I know,” responded Adrienne 


i8o Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

eagerly ; “ but we want to help Marjorie. You see, we 
are Marjorie’s best friends,” and Adrienne told her 
plan. Before she had finished they had reached Miss 
Wing’s house. Somewhat to Ada’s surprise, Miss Wing 
seemed to think that Adrienne’s suggestion could be 
carried out. 

“ It is a lovely idea, and I am quite sure that Mrs. 
Melchin will think so,” she said ; “ now you girls talk 
it over with your parents, and, if they agree, come up 
to-morrow morning and tell me about it, and then I will 
call up Mrs. Melchin.” 

“ Miss Wing is splendid ! ” declared Adrienne, as the 
two girls started for home. “ She always understands. 
I am glad I don’t have to ‘ think again ’ on this plan. 
What makes you so sober, Ada ? You have hardly 
said a word about going to Boston. Don’t you want 
to help Marjorie ? ” 

“ I don’t know as I can,” said Ada. “ There’s Dot- 
tie, you know.” 

“I don’t see what difference that makes,” replied 
Adrienne ; “ the week you go to Boston Lucy and I will 
do all we can to give Dot a good time.” 

‘‘ It isn’t just that — Dot having a good time,” said 
Ada. “ You see, I promised father that if I could have 
Dot stay all summer it shouldn’t make any extra work 
for mother ; and if I go away for a week there would 
be extra work, and she has enough to do now.” 

“ I see,” said Adrienne slowly, and for a moment the 
two girls walked on in silence ; then Adrienne suddenly 


Helping Marjorie i8i 

exclaimed, “ Why can’t I help your mother ? I’d love 
to, if she’ll let me. Ask her, Ada, won’t you ? I know 
you want to help Marjorie just as much as I do.” 

Ada’s face brightened. “You are splendid, Adri- 
enne ! ” she declared. “ It is wonderful how you think 
of things. I’ll tell mother all about it and let you 
know in the morning.” 

“ I can’t wait until morning. Tell her now, Ada. 
I’ll stay out here on the porch, and you come out and 
tell me what she says.” 

“ All right,” agreed Ada, and ran into the house. 
She was back in a few moments, and Mrs. Streeter 
came with her. Adrienne looked up anxiously. She 
wanted very much to have Ada share in the friendly 
scheme to help Marjorie, and as soon as she saw Mrs. 
Streeter’s approving look she smiled happily. 

“ Don’t be too sure that Mrs. Melchin will agree to 
take either or both of you in exchange for Marjorie,” 
she said ; “ but if she will I shall be glad for Ada to 
go.” 

“ And may I come over and help you, Mrs. Streeter ? ” 
Adrienne asked eagerly. “ You know I can just as 
well as not.” 

“ Thank you, my dear ; it is very thoughtful of you,” 
answered Mrs. Streeter, and as the kind eyes rested 
upon her Adrienne felt very proud and happy. 

Miss Wing had just sat down to breakfast when 
Adrienne and Ada appeared. 

“Now I’ll call Mrs. Melchin,” she said, after they 


i 82 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

had told her that their parents were willing. The 
girls listened eagerly as Miss Wing repeated Adrienne’s 
plan to Mrs. Melchin over the telephone. Then, while 
Mrs. Melchin was replying, they stood close to Miss 
Wing, waiting anxiously. 

“ Yes ! ” replied Miss Wing to some question of Mrs. 
Melchin’s. Then another “ Yes ! ” and then “ I’ll tell 
them what you say. It seem^ a good plan.” Then 
a silence while Miss Wing listened, and at last she 
hung up the telephone receiver and turned a smiling 
face toward the girls. 

‘‘ Mrs. Melchin is delighted,” she told them, “ and 
she has suggested something else. She thinks it will 
be a pleasant idea to surprise Marjorie. To take her 
out for a ride, bring her to Ashley, and then slip away, 
taking one of you girls with her, and leave Marjorie 
here with me. What do you think ? ” 

The girls both agreed that it would be fun to sur- 
prise Marjorie and it was decided that on Saturday 
Adrienne should be ready to go back with Mrs. Melchin 
to Boston. 

Marjorie resolved not to let Sophronia guess that 
coming back to Boston had meant any sacrifice to her ; 
but Sophronia’s affection for Marjorie was not to be 
easily deceived. 

“ I reckon I’ve spoiled your good times,” she said, a 
little pleadingly, as Marjorie came into her room with 
an armful of fragrant rose-peonies from Miss Wing’s 
garden, which she heaped upon Sophronia’s bed. 


Helping Marjorie 183 

“ And I reckon that we are going to have a good 
time, you and I, right here in this room,” responded 
Marjorie smilingly, and Sophronia smiled back. “ Get 
a good sniff of those peonies, and then I’ll put them in 
the window for ‘Kobinson Crusoe’ to admire,” said 
Marjorie. “ Ann and I are to have our luncheon up- 
stairs with you to-day, Sophronia ; that is if you want 
us.” 

“ I reckon I do,” saia Sophronia, who began to think 
there might be compensations even for broken legs if 
Marjorie was to be with her. 

“ Then I’ll run into my room and leave my hat there. 
I’ll be back in a minute,” Marjorie said, and the pleas- 
ant-faced nurse smiled appreciatively. She began to 
think that her ‘‘ case ” was going to be an easy one, 
with Marjorie and Ann to entertain the invalid. 

It was settled that the nurse could have the day off, 
and Marjorie was soon back again in Sophronia’s room, 
sitting where Sophronia would not have to move the 
least bit to look at her, and telling about all the 
Ashley happenings. Ann came up and sat down close 
to Marjorie. 

“ I didn’t think you’d come,” she said, when Mar- 
jorie finished describing some wonderful butterflies and 
moths which Alexander had added to his collection. 

“ Why not ? ” asked Marjorie, a little resentfully. 

“ Oh, I don’t know. I thought you’d rather stay in 
Ashley,” said Ann. 

Marjorie did not answer. 


184 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ I told you she’d come. Marjorie always is better 
than anybody else to me,” said Sophronia. 

Cora came up to set the little table for the girls’ 
luncheon. Sophronia’s food was put on a little shelf- 
like table that swung from a standard across the bed. 
Ann and Marjorie took turns in waiting upon her. 
There was a delicious salad, toast, strawberries, ginger- 
snaps, and, just as they decided that they had quite 
finished, in came Cora with a tray of ice-cream. It 
was shaped like peaches, and Sophronia declared that it 
was too pretty to eat, and then, a little later, when the 
last spoonful had disappeared, that she believed things 
that were pretty tasted better than other things. 

In the afternoon Marjorie read aloud, greatly to 
Ann’s delight, and when at four o’clock in the after- 
noon the nurse returned, and said that her patient must 
say good-bye to visitors for that day, Marjorie ex- 
claimed that the time had been short. 

“ See you in the morning,” she said smilingly, as she 
kissed Sophronia, and followed Ann down the stairs. 

They found Miss Wing and Mrs. Melchin waiting in 
the library for them. “ We’ll all go to the station with 
Maria,” Mrs. Melchin said, and it seemed to Marjorie 
that Aunt Maria was very proud to be leaving her 
behind. 

After saying good-bye to Miss Wing, Mrs. Melchin 
directed the chauffeur to take them to Mr. Field’s 
studio. 

“ I want to see Luke,” she explained to the girls. 


Helping Marjorie 185 

“ I thought perhaps it would amuse Sophronia for him 
to bring his marionettes down for her to see.” 

Marjorie looked up at the kind lady sitting beside 
her. “ I hope I can do lovely things for people when 
I grow up, just as you do,” she said admiringly. 

“ You are doing them now, my dear girl,” responded 
the old lady affectionately. 

Luke was at home, and promised readily to bring his 
“ show ” for Sophronia’s amusement the very next day, 
and then Mrs. Melchin said she believed that she would 
like to ride a while, and off the car went down a broad 
avenue lined with trees toward the Keservoir district. 
There was a pleasant little breeze, and Marjorie and 
Ann enjoyed skimming along over the smooth road. 
They were both rather sleepy at their late dinner, and 
were quite ready to go early to bed. 

“ It isn’t going to be hard at all to stay with So- 
phronia,” Marjorie said to herself as she went to her 
own chamber that night. 


CHAPTEK XIX 


MARJOEIE DECIDES 

It seemed to Sophronia that it was almost worth 
while to have a broken leg, since it made everybody so 
kind to her. To have Marjorie ready to read to her, 
talk with her, or help her with numerous games and 
puzzles which Mr. Field had provided, to have wonder- 
ful luncheons with Ann and Marjorie, and have even 
Mrs. Melchin herself come up the stairs every day and 
sit by her bed, and smile so kindly at her, gave the 
little girl a new and happy realization of the friendli- 
ness around her. For Marjorie the first few days went 
very quickly. On two afternoons Mr. Field came 
for her, and they walked down to the esplanade and 
embarked on one of the small launches and sailed 
away up the river, under the Harvard bridge, and up 
beyond the city, coming back just at sunset. So- 
phronia was doing remarkably well, the doctor said, 
and added that she was so well cared for that she 
found it easier to keep quiet and give the broken bone 
a fair chance to knit. 

When Saturday morning came Marjorie owned to 
herself that she was tired, and she was conscious that 
she dreaded to think that she must stay three weeks 
more shut up in the city house. At breakfast Mrs. 

186 


Marjorie Decides 187 

Melchin said, “ Ann is to sit with her sister this morn- 
ing, and you and I, Marjorie, are going for~a ride.” 

Marjorie gave a little sigh of relief, and felt a little 
guilty to think that she was glad to be going off into 
the country, instead of staying with Sophronia. 

“ Cora will bring down your hat, my dear,” Mrs. 
Melchin said. So Marjorie did not go up-stairs, nor 
did she know that Cora had brought down her bag, 
and that it was in the car when they rolled away from 
the Beacon Street house. 

“ What do you say to going out and having luncheon 
with your Aunt Maria ? ” suggested Mrs. Melchin. 

“ Oh ! Could we ? I’d love it ! ” responded Marjorie. 

“ I told Billings not to expect us back,” said Mrs. 
Melchin, “ and I ordered strawberry sherbet for So- 
phronia and Ann, so they will be quite happy with- 
out us.” 

“ You think of the most beautiful things to do,” said 
Marjorie happily. “ Shall we stay all day ? ” 

“ Yes, and your aunt and Adrienne and Ada are ex- 
pecting us,” replied Mrs. Melchin. 

Marjorie’s spirits rose. She enjoyed the fragrant 
June air, the swift movement over the long stretches of 
pleasant country roads, and her thoughts were full of 
all she would have to tell her aunt and her friends. 

Aunt Maria was watching for them, and Buff seemed 
glad to welcome his little mistress. 

“ The Scotch rose is in bloom,” Marjorie exclaimed as 
she ran up the path, “and so are the sweet-williams.” 


i88 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

“ Adrienne wants you to come over to her house, my 
dear, and have a game of tennis before luncheon,” said 
Aunt Maria, and Marjorie started off with Buff at her 
heels. 

“ Now, my dear Maria,” said Mrs. Melchin, as she 
followed her friend into the dining-room, “we must 
have a talk, a serious talk, about this ‘ assessment ’ — 
these girls at my house. You remember that I prom- 
ised to keep them a year ? Well, the year is over, and 
I have come to a decision.” 

Aunt Maria nodded, and waited to hear what So- 
phronia’s and Ann’s fate was to be. 

“We might as well sit down,” said Mrs. Melchin, 
“ for I want to talk it all over with you. They are a 
good deal of care and trouble. I don’t want to shirk 
my share, but bringing up two girls is rather more than 
I feel equal to. I am an old lady, my dear,” and there 
was a plaintive note in Mrs. Melchin’s voice as if she 
wanted Miss Wing not to be severe with her if she fell 
short a little in carrying out helpful plans. 

The two friends talked long and seriously, and when 
Marjorie came running into the house, nearly two hours 
later, they had just reached a decision. 

“We will have to let Marjorie decide,” she heard her 
aunt say. 

“ Decide what ? ” she asked laughingly, and wondered 
why they both looked so sober, and why luncheon was 
not ready. 

“ I’ll teU you later, my dear,” said her aunt ; “ now 


Marjorie Decides 189 

we must fly around and set the table. Luckily, there 
is no need of a fire to-day, and luncheon is all in the re- 
frigerator.” 

“ Shall I have time to go down to Ada’s a minute be- 
fore we start for Boston ? ” Marjorie asked Mrs. Mel- 
chin as they finished luncheon. 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Melchin, and when Marjorie 
came back an hour later Mrs. Melchin had gone. Aunt 
Maria told her all about Adrienne’s plan, and that 
Adrienne had gone to Boston to try and take her place 
with Sophronia for a week. “ And when Adrienne re- 
turns Ada is to go, then you will probably not be 
needed more than another week in Boston,” explained 
Aunt Maria, “ as by that time Mrs. Melchin hopes So- 
phronia can be taken to Cohasset.” 

“ Wasn’t it splendid of Adrienne to think of it ! ” ex- 
claimed Marjorie, “ and I am glad to stay here with 
you. And Mrs. Melchin was fine, too, to slip away and 
not tell me. I do believe Sophronia will have a better 
time with new girls to talk to than she would to 
have me stay right along. Oh ! Everything is com- 
ing out beautifully,” and Marjorie danced a few steps 
across the room and back again to her Aunt Maria’s 
side. 

You know. Aunt Maria, I have been worried all 
winter for fear that Mrs. Melchin would decide that she 
couldn’t keep Sophronia. She likes Ann so much that 
I was pretty sure she would want to keep her, but she 
never seemed to appreciate Sophronia ; but now,” con- 


igo Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

eluded Marjorie, “ I’m sure she will look out for them 
both.” 

Miss Wing was silent, and as Marjorie looked she 
noticed that her aunt had grown very serious. “ What 
is it ? Isn’t Mrs. Melchin going to let Sophronia stay ? ” 
she asked. 

“ We didn’t mean to tell you so soon, dear Marjorie,” 
replied her aunt, “but you must not think that So- 
phronia is going to be deserted or neglected,” for Mar- 
jorie’s eyes had filled with tears at the thought that So- 
phronia was not to remain in the safety and comfort of 
Mrs. Melchin’s home. “We have a plan for Sophronia,” 
continued Miss Wing, “ and it seems as if it was a happy 
one, but it is for you to decide.” 

“ Why doesn’t Mrs. Melchin want Sophronia ? ” al- 
most wailed Marjorie. 

“Mrs. Melchin has been very kind and generous. 
She has made both your little protegees welcome in her 
home, spent a good deal of money for them, and is 
willing to continue to be responsible for them, but she 
says that she does not want to keep them with her all 
the time, as she has done this year.” 

“ What is the plan, then ? ” questioned Marjorie, but 
feeling sure that her Aunt Maria would say that So- 
phronia was to be sent to some home for friendless girls, 
and no longer thinking that such a refuge would be a 
happy place for the little mill girl. 

“ Come and sit on the porch, dear,” suggested her 
aunt, and Marjorie followed her out to the little porch 


Marjorie Decides 191 

in the rear of the house. It faced the pretty slope of 
lawn that went down to the brook, shaded by the big 
willow tree which Marjorie’s grandmother had planted. 

They sat down on the upper step, and Marjorie 
leaned against her aunt. She felt suddenly tired, and 
quite forgot to rejoice in the two weeks of Ashley good 
times before her. 

“ It’s this way, my dear, and you will see how we all 
rely upon you,” began Miss Wing, gently smoothing the 
brown head resting against her shoulder. “ Mrs. Mel- 
chin has had the girls a year, and she has thought 
about them very carefuUy, so as to make plans for their 
future. She is an old lady, dear Marjorie, and not al- 
ways strong or equal to new cares.” 

Marjorie moved impatiently. It seemed to her that 
Aunt Maria was postponing the telling of something 
unpleasant. 

“ This is what she has decided,” continued Miss Wing, 
and at this Marjorie lifted her head and sat up very 
straight. “ The girls are to stay in Cohasset with her 
this summer. In the autumn Ann is to go to a good 
school, where she will be well taught and well cared for 
in every respect.” 

“ And Sophronia ? ” questioned Marjorie eagerly. 

“That is for you to decide, Marjorie. Will you be 
willing to have Sophronia with you, in your own home, 
this winter ? If you will, I have promised your mother’s 
consent, and Mrs. Melchin will furnish the necessary 
money.” 


ig2 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

For a moment Marjorie made no reply. The sunset 
glow back of the willow was fading out. The evening 
star showed faintly in the summer sky, and Marjorie 
began to feel more unhappy and puzzled than ever be- 
fore. If Mrs. Melchin wanted Sophronia to go back to 
the plantation, and was sending Ann to school, then, 
thought Marjorie, the two little mill girls would not 
have a home after all. 

“ So much has happened to-day, dear child, that you 
are tired,” her aunt said. “We won’t talk about it 
again until you wish to.” 

Marjorie thought to herself that she would never want 
to talk about it again. But she said good-night and 
went up to the little white room. 

“ I’m not going to think about it, either,” she resolved. 
“ I’m going to think about going up to the pine woods 
to-morrow with Lucy, and Ada and Dot. And about 
going out to Farmer Wyman’s, and up to the lake ! ” 
But in spite of these resolves she found her thoughts 
going back to Sophronia ; and all at once she exclaimed 
aloud, “ Charles Edward ! That’s it. I have the ad- 
dress. I know Mrs. Field would like to have So- 
phronia.” 

At breakfast Miss Wing sent a little questioning look 
at Marjorie ; but Marjorie did not mention Sophronia. 
She seemed her own light-hearted self, and played ball 
with Buff until the other girls arrived for her to go to 
the pines. 

“ Isn’t Dot a dear ? ” Ada asked, as she and Marjorie 


‘93 


Marjorie Decides 

watched Lucy and Dot making wonderful dolls of the 
pine cones, and using their handkerchiefs for dresses. 
“ I suppose your being so good to Sophronia made me 
want to do something special,” went on Ada, “ and that 
was why I thought of asking Dot to spend the summer.” 

Marjorie made no reply. She thought to herself that 
she wished Ada would not talk about Sophronia. 

“ Adrienne feels just the same,” went on Ada ; “ that’s 
what made her think of going to Mrs. Melchin’s in your 
place. We’re proud of you, Marjorie ! ” concluded her 
friend admiringly. 

“Well, you needn’t be^” Marjorie answered, a little 
sharply. 

As the days slipped by and her Aunt Maria did not 
again refer to Sophronia, Marjorie began to be troubled. 
Adrienne had returned from her visit with Sophronia, 
and declared that she had enjoyed every minute of the 
time. Ada’s visit was nearly over, and Marjorie won- 
dered to herself what would happen if she did not speak 
to her aunt about Mrs. Melchin’s plans. 

“ I can’t tell them about Charles Edward until I’m 
sure,” she thought, and wondered how she could find 
some way to get to Cambridge, on her return to Bos- 
ton, and see Mrs. Field. She remembered the address, 
and felt quite sure that she could find the place. 

Sophronia was so glad to see her that Marjorie quite 
forgot to wish herself back in Ashley. The broken leg 
was mending satisfactorily. A pair of crutches were 
in Sophronia’s room, and the doctor had said that it 


194 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

would be quite safe for her to go to Cohasset the last of 
the week. Arm was rejoicing that she was again to be 
near the sea, but Sophronia owned that she would rather 
stay in Boston if Marjorie could stay with her, rather 
than go to the shore without her. 

“Everybody’s been right good to me. I’ve had 
everything I wanted. That is,” and Sophronia cor- 
rected this statement by saying, “ everything I ou^A^ to 
want. I’ll tell you something, Marjorie ; something I 
haven’t told anybody ; I’ve been wishing I could see 
Charles Edward ! ” 

Marjorie laughed with delight. “ Isn’t that funny, 
Sophronia ? I have been thinking about him, too. I’ll 
tell you something. I am going over to Cambridge and 
see Mrs. Field. And perhaps it won’t be very long be- 
fore you will see Charles Edward.” 

“ Is it a secret ? ” asked Sophronia, remembering the 
wonderful surprise of Adrienne’s and Ada’s visit, and 
thinking to herself that very likely Charles Edward 
was coming to see her in the same unexpected way. 

“Well, we won’t tell anybody yet,” Marjorie an- 
swered. “ You see, Sophronia, I shall go home in Oc- 
tober, and ” Here Marjorie hesitated. She re- 

membered that Sophronia had no home. That if she, 
Marjorie, wished she could take her to the plantation. 
And she realized, too, that in deciding to ask Mrs. Field 
to give Sophronia a home she had, as she said to her- 
self, been meaning to “shirk.” She rushed suddenly 
out of the room and into her own, and shut the door. 


195 


Marjorie Decides 

“ I’ve found you out, Marjorie Philips ! ” she 
whispered. “You let the girls praise you, and you 
think other people ought to do things. But you are a 
selfish shirk. You’ve tried and keep trying to have 
other people do things for Sophronia. Now you’ve 
just got to do them yourself. Sophronia is going South 
when you do, Marjorie Philips. And go to college 
when you do. And go shares, always ! ” And a few 
moments later Miss Maria Wing was called to the 
telephone, and heard Marjorie’s voice saying : “ Aunt 
Maria, will you call Mrs. Melchin up, now, right away ; 
and tell her that I’ve decided. I want Sophronia to 
go home with me in October. Yes, indeed ! And 
stay always.” 

As Marjorie turned from the telephone she found 
Mrs. Melchin standing just behind her. 

“ I heard your message, Marjorie. You are a dear 
child,” the old lady said kindly. “ Now we can make 
plans.” 


CHAPTER XX 


MAEJOEIE AND MES. MELCHIN 

Chaeles Edwaed and his mother took their place 
in the big automobile beside Marjorie. It seemed to 
Marjorie that Charles Edward was trying very hard to 
say that he preferred an automobile to a baby-carriage. 

“ It’s real kind, I’m sure,” Mrs. Field said as the car 
sped along over the bridge, “ and I’ll be real pleased 
to see the little girl again. So she’s going South with 
you in the fall ? That’s real nice, I’m sure.” 

For Marjorie had told Mrs. Melchin of how much So- 
phronia wanted to see Charles Edward, with the result 
that the visit had been promptly arranged by telephone, 
and Marjorie and Cora had been sent to bring the 
visitors. 

Charles Edward proved himself a very entertaining 
visitor. He grabbed at the parrots, nearly fell down- 
stairs, and kept Ann and Marjorie constantly on the 
alert. But Sophronia and his mother watched him ad- 
miringly ; and when Sophronia declared that she 
thought Charles Edward was the smartest baby she had 
ever seen, Mrs. Field nodded approvingly ; and told 
Mrs. Melchin that the moment Sophronia came into her 
house, nearly a year ago, she could see that Charles 
Edward “ took ” to her. 


196 


Marjorie and Mrs. Melchin 197 

On the day after Charles Edward’s visit, Mrs. 
Melchin removed her family to Cohasset and Marjorie 
returned to Ashley for the summer. She felt very care- 
free and happy. Mrs. Melchin had told her of what 
she meant to do for the little mill girls. 

“ I have set aside the stock I own in those Columbia 
mills for Sophronia and Ann,” she said ; “ the dividends 
will pay for their education. And as long as I live So- 
phronia is to come JSTorth each summer and she and 
Ann will stay with me for the hot weather.” 

“ It’s lovely ! ” Marjorie had declared happily. 

The summer went quickly by. Early in September 
Dot, healthy and happy, had returned to Boston. 
Adrienne was to go to a girls’ school in a neighboring 
town, and Lucy would remain in Ashley. Marjorie, 
Miss Wing and Sophronia were to start for the South 
early in October, when Ann would begin school. 

“ You’ll be gone by this time to-morrow, Sophronia,” 
Ann said mournfully, as the sisters sat together on the 
sunny piazza at Cohasset. “ I reckon I’ll be right 
homesick not to see you for so many months. I ’most 
wish we was back in the mill, I do. Then we were al- 
ways together.” 

“ Andromeda Cutts ! Take that right back,” de- 
manded Sophronia. “ Of course you’re going to miss 
me, and I’m going to miss you ; but we’re going to be 
happy thinking about each other. I’m going to be with 
my best friend, and I am going to try and be just as 
much like her as I can. And you are going to a 


198 Marjorie on Beacon Hill 

splendid school. Mrs. Melchin is going to see you 
every week, and you are to have music lessons. And 
when summer comes we’ll be back here, right on this 
porch, together.” 

Ann managed to smile as Sophronia finished. 

“ I reckon it is better than the mill,” she acknowl- 
edged. 

‘‘ And we mustn’t ever forget,” concluded Sophronia 
earnestly, “ that it’s Marjorie who has done all this for 
us. We’d be ragged and dirty and ignorant and abused, 
all our lives, probably, if she hadn’t helped us and 
taught us. And now I am to go to college with her, 
some day. And you are to be a musician. Mrs. 
Melchin says that you are. And it’s all on account of 
Marjorie’s helping us.” 

“ Yes, Marjorie and Mrs. Melchin,” Ann agreed, and 
Sophronia repeated her words. 

“ Yes, Marjorie and Mrs. Melchin.” 


Other Stories in this Series are : 
MARJORIE’S WAY 
MARJORIE’S SCHOOLDAYS 
MARJORIE IN THE SUNNY SOUTH 







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